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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




ADA REHAN. 



HENCE! BEGONE! AND IN BLANK OBLIVION 
MAY YOUR FOUL IMAGE DIE!" 




CYRIL SCOTT. 



"that was the climax of the whole affair, 
what she did and he did not— ha, ha! 
and you saw nothing of it?" 



Yfye ^peerless K^citer 



OR 



POPULAR PROGRAM 

CONTAINING THE 

Choicest Recitations and Readings from 
the Best Authors 

FOR • 

SCHOOLS, PUBLIC ENTERTAINMENTS, SOCIAL 
GATHERINGS, SUNDAY SCHOOLS, ETC., 

INCLUDING 

RECITALS IN PROSE AND VERSE 

SELECTIONS WITH MUSICAL ACCOMPANIMENTS, DIA- 
LOGUES, DRAMAS, TABLEAUX, ETC., ETC. 

TOGETHER WITH 

Rules and Instructions for Gesture, Expression, and 
Cultivation of the Voice. 



COMPILED AND EDITED BY 

HENRY DAVENPORT NORTHROP, 

Author of " Crown Jewels ," "Four Centuries of Progress," "Beautiful Gems" etc., etc. 



EMBELLISHED WITH SUPERB PHOTOTYPE ENGRAVINGS 
AND LINE DRAWINGS. 



PHILADELPHIA: \> Y ** '^J) ; 

NATIONAL PUBLISHING CO. 

241 Levant Street. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1894, by 

J. R. JONES, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 

All Rights Reserved. 



PREFACE. 



THERE is an immense and constantly growing demand for the 
very best selections from the best authors for readings and 
recitations. No form of entertainment is more universally 
popular than this for Schools, Social Gatherings, Lyceums, Lodges, 
Church and Sunday-school Anniversaries, Christmas Exhibitions and 
many other public occasions. The cultured voice and magnetic 
personality of the successful reader are always charming and welcome. 

This wide-spread demand for the best readings is fully supplied by 
The Peerless Reciter or Popular Program. This work is a rich casket 
of gems in Prose and Poetry, all strikingly adapted to instruct and 
entertain. They are suited to every conceivable occasion where 
a reading is in order, and are the best afforded by the whole range 
of literature, comprising Eloquence and Sentiment ; Pathos and 
Humor; Dramatic and Descriptive Selections; Juvenile Readings; 
Readings with Lesson Talks ; Readings with Accompaniments of 
Music ; Dialogues, Tableaux, etc., etc. 

Part First : The Mind Speaking through the Body, contains 
Important Principles and Rules. In a very concise form it points out 
the best methods for strengthening and cultivating the voice and 
teaches the manner to be observed, the most effective attitudes and 
gestures to be employed, and the rules for emphasis and pauses. 

This part is rendered attractive and valuable by helpful object 
lessons. It contains all the typical and most important gestures 
in outline drawings, to which frequent references are made throughout 
the work, showing the exact gesture that should be made. 

Part Second : Readings with Lesson Talks, contains charming 
selections to which are added valuable suggestions as to the best 
manner of rendering them. These Talks are brief, pithy and right to 
the point. Verse by verse and line by line the reader is told how to 
deliver the thought and sentiment to the very best advantage, 
iii 



iv PREFACE. 

Part Third : Readings with Musical Accompaniments, contains 
selections in which snatches of songs and instrumental music are 
introduced. No readings are more popular or more eagerly sought 
than these. The skillful recitationist of either sex, who can express 
some part of the sentiment by appropriate strains of music never fails 
to captivate the hearers and meet with hearty applause. 

For this reason a number of well chosen recitals have been inserted, 
accompanied by suitable musical scores. These are both sprightly 
and pathetic. In some instances thrilling scenes are depicted by the 
text, and the music, properly rendered, adds greatly to the effect. 

Part Fourth : Descriptive and Dramatic Readings, is a vast 
collection of gems in Prose and Poetry, all chosen from* the very best 
authors. They are such, and such only, as are remarkably adapted 
to illustrate the power and fascination of the reader's consummate art. 
Descriptions of startling incidents, feats of heroic courage, manly 
achievements, daring exploits, thrilling adventures and noble deeds, 
combine to give an unrivalled charm to this part of the work. 

Part Fifth : Grave and Pathetic Readings, embraces a rare 
collection of recitals that touch the heart and arouse its deepest 
emotions. The great masters of pathos are here fully represented, 
and the scenes they depict with graphic power are among the choicest 
jewels the English language affords. 

Part Sixth : Humorous Readings, is without a peer in those 
fascinating selections of satire, wit and humor which are absolutely 
indispensable to all public entertainments. These are the brightest 
flashes of wit and drollery from authors of world-wide fame. 

Part Seventh : Readings for Juveniles, is a charming collection of 
sprightly and beautiful recitations for the little folks, suited admirably 
to every occasion on which the boys and girls are expected to appear. 
The grave, the gay, the beautiful, the serious, the fascinating, are all 
mingled here in a manner that delights all young people. 

Part Eighth: Dialogues and Tableaux, furnishes a wide and varied 
collection of pieces containing several parts for as many reciters. 
These have been written and selected with great care. 

\ 
t 

> 



CONTENTS. 



Part I. — The Mind Speaking Through the Body. 

PAGE 

Important Principles and Rules 17 

The Book— How to Use It 17 

The Manner 17 

Cultivation of the Voice 17 

Distinct Enunciation 18 

Rules for Expression 18 

Rules for Gesture 18 

Use of the Hands and Arms 18 

Facial Expression 18 

Correct Attidude 18 

Rules for Emphasis 18 

Rules for Pauses 18 

Outline Drawings Showing Typical Gestures 19-24 

Part II. — Readings with Lesson Talks. 

The Wreck of an Ocean Steamship Henry Davenport 25 

Lesson Talk 27 

Echo Dell Mrs. H. M. Miller 28 

Lesson Talk 30 

The Foot-Ball Game ." Robert Copland 31 

Lesson Talk 34 

The Race of the Boomers Richard Btcrton 35 

Lesson Talk gy 

The Inventor's Wife Mrs. E. T. Cor^^ gg 

Lesson Talk ' , ia g9 

True Patriotism Fishe y - r Ames. 40 

Lesson Talk... y 4Q 



vi CONTENTS. 

Part III. — Readings with Accompaniments of Musiu. 

Sandy's Romance Henry Davenport 41 

The Drowning Singer Marianne Farningham 43 

The Soldier's Cradle Hymn Mary McGuire 45 

The Cradle Song 47 

Milking Time Philip Morse 47 

Part IV. — Descriptive and Dramatic Readings. 

Wedding Bells Charlotte M. Griffiths 49 

The Drummer Boy... 52 

The Old Man in the Palace Car John H. Yates 56 

The Battle of Waterloo Victor Hugo 57 

Asleep at the Switch George Hoey 58 

Brier- Rose Hjalmar Hjorth Boyseen 61 

The Black Horse and his Rider George Lippard 66 

Echo and the Ferry Jean Ingelow 67 

Andre and Hale Chauncey M. Depew 71 

Orange and Green Gerald Griffin 73 

To a Skeleton 76 

The Majesty of Trifles Victor Hugo 77 

The Fire Hugh F. McDermott 78 

Heroes of the Land of Penn George Lippard 80 

\ Kate Shelly Eugene J. Hall 84 

Independence Bell — July 4, 1776 86 

Mary Queen of Scots H G. Bell S9 

One Niche the Highest Elihu Burritt 92 

The Charcoal Man J. T. Trowbridge 95 

V To-Day and To-Morrow Gerald Massey 97 

■^Vashington Charles Phillips 99 

Th^^ ove_ Knot Nora Perry 100 

Lookjmrt Mountain George L. Catlin 101 

The BuXj 1 " 1 ^ °f Chicago Benjamin F. Taylor 104 

Bin the E\lS' neer • • Bettersworth 105 

The Actor's\J tor y George R. Sims 109 

Zarafi.. \ Lamar tine 113 




CONTENTS. vii 

My Hero John Preston True 115 

The Destruction of Troy Publius V. M. Virgil 117 

The Triumph of Hector Homer 121 

The Besieged Castle Sir Walter Scott 122 

Boadicea William Cowper 126 

The Race Lyof Tolstoi 127 

The King's Tragedy Dante Gabriel Rossetti 131 

The New South W. H Grady 136 

Love Lightens Labor 138 

A Schoolroom Idyl Charles B. Going 139 

One of the Heroes Eben E. Rexford 140 

The Grave Henry Davenport 142 

A Battery in Hot Action 144 

Sam Albert Hardy 147 

A Tribute to Columbus Joaquin Miller 143 

My Lover Emma Mortimer White 150 

The Ride of Paul Venarez 151 

La Tour D'auvergne Maida Buon 153 

The Prairie Mirage 157 

Hunting a Madman John F. Nicholls 158 

The Drummer Boy 160 

John Maynard Horatio Alger, Jr 164 

A Race for Life W. W. Marsh 167 

•^The Swan-Song Katharine Ritter Brooks 169 

A Romance of the Revolution 174 

The Engineer' s Story 179 

Johnny Bartholomew Thomas Dunn English 179 

The Lifeboat George R. Sims 181 

The Spanish Mother Sir Francis Hastings Doyle 185 

In the Signal Box George R. Sims 189 

Men Who Never Die Edward Everett 192 

A Laughing Chorus 193 

Wrongs of Ireland Henry Grattan 194 

A Ballad of Brave Women Philip Bourke Marston 195 

Influence of American Freedom Reverdy Johnson 199 

On the Rappahannock Charles H. Tiffany 200 



viii CONTENTS. 

The Last Charge of Marshal Ney ./. T. Headley 203 

^asca Frank Desprez 205 

The Tea-Kettle and the Cricket Charles Dickens 208 

What is a Minority? John B. Gough 211 

St. Valentine's Day Helen Whitney Cla?'k 212 

A Race for Life 214 

Sacrilege.. Thomas Stephens Collier 215 

Part V. — Grave and Pathetic Readings. 

A Child's Dream of a Star Charles Dickens 217 

Hilda, Spinning 220 

The Old School Clock John Boyle O'Reilly 223 

Little Boj Blue Eugene Field 225 

The Puritans Lord Macaulay 226 

The Auctioneer's Gift S. W. Foss 228 

Rhymes for Hard Times Norman McLeod 229 

The Weight of a Word 230 

An Old Valentine George Birdseye 231 

The Song of the Spinning Wheel 232 

Looking into the Future Gerald Massey 234 

Poor Little Joe David L. Proudfit 235 

"Kiss Me, Mamma" 237 

}^Vhisperin' Bill Irving Bacheller 239 

Out at Sea /. S. Fletcher 241 

No Saloons Up There 242 

The Tides : 245 

A Child Once More 246 

The Irish Woman's Lament 24S 

The Last Hours of Little Paul Dombey Charles Dickens 249 

Death of Hope Mary Evered 253 

The Old Homestead Henry Davenport 254 

Somebody's Mother 256 

A White Lily Mary L. Wright 25S 

Jack F. M. Stanley 259 

The Old Wife Theron Brozvn 262 



CONTENTS. ix 

Born Dumb Norman Gale 264 

Old Jack Watts' s Christmas 265 

The Organist Matthias Barr 268 

If We Knew 270 

Small Beginnings Charles MacKay 271 

Nellie's Prayer George R. Sims 272 

Brought Back John F. Nicholls 278 

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep 279 

Part VI. — Humorous Readings. 

Barney O'Linn and the Leeches 281 

How we Hunted a Mouse Joshua Jenkins 283 

A Lover Without Arms Henry Davenport 285 

Baby in Church Minnie M. Gozv 287 

Where the Mince Pie Grows 289 

The Pickwickians on Ice • Charles Dickens 291 

A Tuexdo Romance Albert Hardy 297 

Booh ! Eugene Field 299 

Awfully Lovely Philosophy 300 

Wash Dolly Up Like That 302 

Proof Positive 303 

The Song of the Printing Press Henry Davenport 304 

Pomona Describes Her Bridal Trip Frank R. Stockton 306 

Cause and Effect 308 

The Puzzled Dutchman Charles F. Adams 309 

Mrs. Smart Learns How to Skate Clara Augusta 310 

A Boy's Poem on Washington Henry Davenport 315 

How Three Were Made One Edward H. Peale 316 

The Goat and the Swing John Townsend Trowbridge 317 

The McSwats Swear Off 319 

The Telltale 321 

The Knight and the Lady Richard Harris Barham 323 

Jimmy Brown's Sister's Wedding 332 

The Old TymeTayle of ye Knight, etc.... Jack Bennet 335 

The Soft Guitar , , p. H. Bowne 340 



x CONTENTS. 

A Receipt for a Racket. 342 

Shacob's Lament Charles F. Adams 343 

Be Brave May Cooper 345 

He Tried to Tell His Wife 346 

A Russian Courtship 348 

Pat's Love Letter , 349 

My Neighbor's Call „ Georgia A. Peck 351 

A Woman's Watch 352 

An Incomplete Revelation Richard A . Jackson 353 

When Sam'wel Led the Singin' 354 

Observations of Rev. Gabe Tucker /. A. Mason 356 

Mr. Eisseldorff and the Water Pipe . 356 

The Watermillion 357 

^ An All-Round Intellectual Man , Tom 3/asson 358 

Wakin' the Young Uns John Boss 359 

Naming the Chickens Mrs. L. B. Bacon 361 

Needles and Pins „ 362 

Too Progressive for Him Luran IV. Sheldon 363 

The Low-Backed Car Samuel Lover 364 

The Old Fisherman 366 

Kittens and Babies 367 

A Similar Case 368 

A Fly's Cogitations 369 

The Charge on Old Hundred 371 

A Married Love-Letter 372 

The Ruling Passion William H. Switer 373 

A Complaint B. A. Pennypacker 375 

Sunday Talk in the Horse Sheds Robert J. Burdette 377 

We All Know Her Tom Masson 379 

Too Bad 379 

The Wrong Train M. Quad 3S0 

How Father Carves the Duck 384 

The Men who Do Not Lift 385 

Going on an Errand 386 

Her Excuse 387 

Asking Mother .Henry Davenport 388 



CONTENTS. xi 

Tit for Tat 389 

The Glorious Fourth 390 

Mr. Maloney's Account of the Ball William Makepeace Thackeray 392 

"There Was a Crooked Man" William Edward Penney 394 

The Noble Stranger 396 

Mickey Coaches his Father Ernest Jarrold 398 

Aunt Tabitha O. W. Holmes 401 

Gossip May Cooper 402 

Farmer John 403 

The Witness , 404 

Socrates Snooks 406 

How Girls Study Belle McDonald 407 

VII. — Readings For Juveniles. 

Kris Kringle's Surprise Henry Davenport 409 

Little Dora's Soliloquy 410 

"Little Jack"" Eugene J. Hall 411 

The Little Angel 412 

A Mercantile Transaction Francis A. Humphrey 413 

Planting Wheat Mrs. M. M. Anderson 413 

The Brave Little Maid 414 

Take up the Collection 415 

Better Whistle than Whine 416 

The Little Sunbeam , 417 

I Would if I Could 418 

Measuring the Baby , 419 

A Thanksgiving Dinner Lesbia Bryant 421 

Mr. Nobody 422 

Is It You? Mrs. Mary Goodwin 423 

Lulu's Complaint 424 

Little Tommie's First Smoke 425 

The Robin-Redbreasts Aunt Effie 's Rhymes 426 

"They Say" 427 

Suppose Phoebe Carey 428 

The Speckled Hen E. W. Denison 429 

No Stockings to Wear 431 



xii CONTENTS. 

Santa's Secret 432 

That's Baby 433 

Johnny's Pocket 433 

How He Does It 434 

Our Christmas Julia Anna Wolcott 435 

What Might Happen Eva Lovett Carson 438 

Our Dog Henry Davenport 439 

I Wish I Was a Grown-Up Mrs. M. F. Butts 441 

Going After the Cows 443 

The Road to Yesterday 444 

Charley's Opinion of the Baby 445 

The True Story of Little Boy Blue.. 446 

Running a Race 44g 

Part VIII. — Dialogues, Colloquies and Tableaux. 

The Model Lesson 449 

A Consensus of the Competent Dorothea Lummis 457 

Fox and Geese Anna M. Ford 458 

The Portrait Isabel B. Bowman 461 

The Competing Railroads 465 

Romeo and Juliet William Shakespeare 466 

How Mrs. Gaskell Did Not Hire a Cook 472 

The Excitement at Kettleville Epes Sargent 479 

Corporal Punishment Young Folks' Rural 488 

The Frog Hollow Lyceum H. Elliott McBride 490 

Little Helpers E. L. Brown 497 

A School-Girl's Troubles , Annette Marsh 499 

Tableaux , 501 

Old King Cole 501 

Little Miss Muffett 501 

Little Jack Horner 502 

Simple Simon 502 

Jack and Jill 503 

The Old Woman in the Shoe ' 503 

Cinderella's Slipper. 503 

Listeners Hear no Good of Themselves 504 




MODJESKA. 



AND HERE'S SOME FOR ME; WE MAY CALL IT HERB OF GRACE 0' SUNDAYS. 

OPHELIA. 




JOSEPH JEFFERSON. 



WHERE IS MY DOG SCHNEIDER? 

Rip VAN WINKLE 



PART I. 
The Mind Speaking Through the Body. 



IMPORTANT PRINCIPLES AND RULES. 

The Book.— Hold the book in your left hand, and keep the place open with 
the thumb and little finger, supporting the book with three fingers placed on the 
under side. Let your eyes glance frequently from the page to your audience. Be 
so familiar with the selection that your eyes will not be bound to the book, and 
will be left free to act their very important part in the expression of the thought 
and sentiment. Your reading will be more effective if you have the selection 
committed to memory, and can lay aside the book entirely. 

The Manner. — Be perfectly natural. Get into touch with your hearers. 
Stand or sit among them, as it were, and talk with them ; do not place a cold 
distance between yourself and them, and then speak at them. Do not be stiff 
or stilted. Have all your powers under command. Take possession of yourself, 
as in this way only can you take possession of your audience. If you are ill at ease, 
your listeners will be also. Keep the body erect, yet not rigid or defiant unless the 
sentiment calls for it. 

The Voice. — To have a full, rich, flexible voice, capable of easy modula- 
tions, is one of the necessary accomplishments of a successful reader. This, 
as a rule, must be the result of patient training. 

Practice breathings. Stand erect, with the shoulders thrown back, and take 
in a full breath, filling the lungs to their utmost capacity. The breath should 
be emitted at times slowly ; again, more rapidly ; again, with quick, explosive 
force. 

The human voice is capable of great cultivation, yet always within certain 
limits. It should not be strained or overworked. With a full breath give a 
prolonged sound, as you would in calling to some one at a distance. Do this 
on different keys, from the lowest to the highest. Practice quick, explosive 
sounds. You should know how to whisper ; a forcible whisper can be heard 
by every person in the largest audience. 

Your voice should have what, for want of a better term, may be called 

volume. It should have a certain carrying p<" -er that will enable it to reach the 

farthest listener without rising to a shout A loud voice is not always the most 

effective, nor can it always be heard at the greatest distance. A voice compara- 

2 17 



18 THE MIND SPEAKING THROUGH THE BODY. 

tively weak can press its tones forward and prolong them, thereby doing very 
effective work. Do not spoil your reading by shouting or ranting. 

Do not mouth your words, nor jumble them together. You should enunciate 
distinctly, for the reason that you are trying to say something and wish your 
audience to understand what it is. 

Expression. — The body, with voice, eyes, hands, arms, head, in short, with 
all its members that were made to talk, should express the exact thought and 
sentiment of the reading. How can this be done unless you make the selection 
your own ? It is your high work to bring the thought and sentiment home to the 
minds and hearts of others. The selection is yours for the time being, a part of 
yourself, and you are communicating it. The eccentric, celebrated Dr. Emmons, 
was once asked by a student to give him some rules for public speaking. The 
Doctor gave him two: 1st — Have something to say ; 2nd — Say it. You are 
supposed to have something to express, and you are to summon all your powers and 
energies of mind and body to give effect to the expression. 

Make gestures only where they are required. A few, well placed and suited to 
the thought, are better than many given at random. Let the hand take any shape 
that is appropriate — the open palm — the pointing finger — the clenched fist — and do 
it all in an easy, natural way. In gestures requiring only one hand, make use of 
the right. Ordinarily the hand should be lifted from the side with a slight curve 
of motion. Do not let one gesture contradict another ; all should be in harmony. 

Remember that your arms are arms, not sticks. The angular, ungainly thrust 
is a common fault. Let your arms be supple, easily bent. Do not use merely 
a part of the arm, as if your elbow had suddenly become your shoulder. Let the 
gesture rest on the emphatic word. It should not follow, but rather precede, the 
sentiment it is intended to aid in expressing. 

Human emotions write themselves upon the face. The eyes and other features 
should express joy, sorrow, wonderment, fear, merriment, hope, despair, anger, 
etc., according as these are conveyed in language. Here, especially, the proficient 
reader shows his consummate art, and here is large opportunity for painstaking 
study. 

Stand, as a rule, with one foot slightly in advance of the other, resting the 
weight of the body on the one farther back. 

Emphases and Pauses. — There is a world of meaning sometimes in a word 
emphasized. Where the thought is intended to be emphatic there should be an 
emphatic expression of it. Emphasis is the life of antithesis. 

The sentiment of nearly every recital requires pauses ; silence is often the most 
eloquent speech. Do not make the pause too lengthy, else a dreadful solemnity 
and dullness will result. 

Take note that the cuts in Part I are intended to show only typical gestures. 
It would be impossible in this Volume to represent all the gestures required in 
reading. 






cz> 



Fig. 2.— Announcing. 




Fig. 3.— Revealing. 



(SlUJ. 



Fig. 4-.— Denying— Rejecting. 



19 




Fig. 5.— Defending. 





Fig. 6.— Protecting— Soothing. 




Fig. 7.— Presenting or Receiving. 



Fig. 8.— Signalling. 



20 




Fig. 9.— Designating. 






Fig. 11.— Secrecy. 



Fig. 12.— Meditation. 



21 




Fig. 13.— Indecision. 





Fig* 14.— Defiance. 




Fig. 15.— Repulsion. 



Fig. 16.— Exaltation. 



22 




Fig". 17.— Wonderment. 





Fig. 18.— Gladness. 



Fig. 19.~Anguish. 




Fig. 20.— Remorse. 





Fig. 23,— Dispersion. 



Fig. 24.— Discerning. 



24 




MARY ANDERSON. 



AND, IN THIS RAGE, WITH SOME GREAT KINSMAN'S BONE, 
AS WITH A CLUB, DASH OUT MY DESPERATE BRAINS? 

JULIET 




EDWIN BOOTH. 



OH, THAT A MAN MIGHT KNOW 
THE END OF THlS DAY'S BUSINESS ERE IT COME! 



JULIUS CAESAR 



V 



PART II. 

Readings with Lesson Talks. 



A 



THE WRECK OF AN OCEAN STEAMSHIP. 

[Written expressly for this Volume.] 

LL READY ! Off with the ropes ! " We move out. from the 

dock. Farewells are exchanged and fluttering handkerchiefs 

wave us a happy voyage. Down the bay we glide and the 

crowd we have left behind rapidly disappears in the distance. One by 

one the white signals vanish : now only one remains. I see it! There 

it is again ! Now it is gone ! 

An ocean steamship ! White-winged bird of the sea ! Majestic 
conqueror of winds and waves, one of the grandest works of man ! 
Swift shuttle flying from shore to shore, weaving continents together! 
Her machinery has the precision of that of a watch. With ribs of iron, 
strength of a thousand Titans, and heart of fire, she seems a thing 
of life, at once a monster and a sylph. Swiftly she cuts the water : 
onward she plunges; she pants and leaps like the Arab's steed dashing 
over the plains. The waters splash and curl around her prow. The 
dark clouds issue from her smokestacks and float away on the hurrying 
winds. She rocks as gracefully as a cradle on the gentle swell of the 
ocean, or mounts the great waves as easily as the sea-gull rises on the 
crest of the bounding billows. 

There stands the Captain on the bridge, his cheeks bronzed by the 
blasts of a hundred voyages. The sturdy quartermasters are at the 
wheel, and the man on the lookout peers into the mist, ready to give 
the signal if there is danger ahead. A thousand souls are on board, 
and from hundreds of homes on land prayers and good wishes are 

25 



26 READINGS WITH LESSON TALKS. 

wafted toward the gallant ship with its precious freight of human lives. 

Now the mist thickens. A curtain like the night is spread over the 

deep and we are sailing into mystery. Hark ! The fog-horn gives its 

warning sound, which floats away over the sea, yet no echo comes 

back. Again and again, boom ! boom ! goes the fog-horn, and the 

low, long, hollow sound dies away in silence. And now the breath 

of the ocean stirs. See ! The thick veil around is rent, the dense fog 

is torn to shreds, bright gleams of light flash across the waters, the 

clouds of mist roll upward, the white crests of the waves sparkle in the 

sunlight, The ship, no longer timid, takes a fresh start. Her great 

engines throb ; 

"She seems to feel 
The thrill of life along her keel : " 

she trembles in every fibre ; swiftly she leaves the long white wake 
behind her ; she is eager for the shore. 

Now, the faint yet certain signs of a storm are in the sky. The sun 
is wrapped in a haze and the great Atlantic rolls in thickening gloom. 
Long, compact clouds skirt the horizon, and hour by hour they climb 
the sky higher and grow darker. The breeze is livelier now. Look ! 
The white-caps fling up their gleaming crests, the gallant ship grows 
more uneasy, storm-blasts sweep through the whistling rigging, and 
the passengers crawl below deck. 

Night comes on and the gale increases. The elements have broken 
their chains and their startling fury is unrestrained. Great waves 
in quick succession beat against the ship and now and then sweep 
in swift torrents over her deck. She rears and plunges like a wild 
horse without a rider. The cries of women and children add to the 
terrible scene. Bang! Thump! Another huge wave strikes the ship, 
and she staggers like a drunken man. Now she rises and topples 
on the crest of the awful billows, and now dives down into the hollow 
gulf as if about to be swallowed up by the jaws of the devouring deep ! 

Night, dark and terrible, closes around us again. Fast we drive 
before the fury of the gale. Through the roar of the mad hurricane 
and the noise of the angry waters we hear the loud, hoarse voices 



READINGS WITH LESSON TALKS. 27 

of the officers on deck giving orders to the brave sailors. Hark ! 
Sharp and quick, a cry, a startling cry, rings out : " Man overboard ! 
The rope! The rope!" One wild shriek, choked by the raging 
waters, and he. is gone. It is the work of a moment. On we plunge. 
The Captain looks careworn and anxious ; he has not slept for two 
days and nights. We must be near the rocky shore ; he will stand 
off ahd run no risks. 

O treacherous winds and sea ! We are nearer danger than we think. 
The engines give us only motion enough to steady our rolling, 
plunging vessel. Thump ! Crash ! She strikes ! The sudden jar 
makes her quiver from bow to stern. For an instant she seems 
to have been shattered into a million fragments. Hurriedly, frightened, 
screaming, the passengers rush on deck. High above the tumult 
rings the stern voice of the Captain : " Back ! Be quiet ! Ready the 
boats ! " 

In wild excitement the boats are lowered, but the staunch ship clings 
to the grim rock and holds her own. No lives are lost, yet, Merciful 
Heaven, save these thousand souls from ever facing death again 
by storm and shipwreck ! — Henry Davenport. 

LESSON TALK. 

This selection requires intense feeling and animation. You are aboard the 
ship ; you see all that is described ; you are awed, thrilled, terrified as the events 
move on in rapid succession. You are to impart your own feeling to your 
audience. 

In full tones imply a certain admiration of the great vessel, and a sense of awe 
inspired by the storm-lashed ocean. Nerves and muscles are tense, and the whole 
body is to speak. With right hand over the eyes look away to see the last signal 
in the crowd on the dock. 

In subdued tones speak of the thousand souls on board, and the prayers offered 
for their safety. Speak the word " boom " with a prolonged sound on a low key, 
thus suggesting the sound of the fog-horn. As the mist breaks and the sunlight 
gleams let your manner be more animated and joyous. 

Locate the coming storm in the sky, and in subdued yet intense manner indi- 
cate its gathering gloom. With voice, more than by any attempt at gesture, 
describe the rolling and plunging of the ship. Cry out, " Man overboard ! " just 
as you would if you saw the man swept from the deck. Point to him, and start 
forward as if about to attempt to save him. Never overdo dramatic action ; let 



28 READINGS WITH LESSON TALKS. 

there be no straining for effect. But you are wrought up by the scene, and by 
rapid utterance, animated gestures and appropriate tones of voice you are to make 
the scene a present reality to the imaginations of the hearers. 

The selection comes to a natural climax in the wreck of the ship. With 
quick breath and fast utterance the sudden shock, the fright, the confusion on 
board are to be expressed. The Captain's call is loud and stern. A reaction 
comes as you assert that no lives are lost ; the intense strain is over, yet the 
deep feeling appears again in the earnest prayer at the close. # 

The entire selection should be read at a brisk rate, and this should be increased 
to rapidity in the exciting passages. 



ECHO DELL. 

[A good reading for voice culture.] 

OH, listen, friends, and hear me tell 
Of a spot I've found in the farmer's dell ; 
'Tis a place where fairy echoes glide, 
A spot where the twilight loves to hide ; 
For, when noontide glories gild the hill, 
This rock-walled spot is shaded still ; 
And the echoes shout, shout — ring, ring — bound, bound, 
In and out with a merry shout. 

Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha /—Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! 
Follow, follow, follow, follow — follow, follow. 

Away from the town and the dusty street, 
From the clatter of hoofs and the patter of feet, 
Cushioned with moss and o'erhung with vines, 
'Tis a holy place, and a spire of pines 
With tapering fingers, green and high, 
Points to that home beyond the sky ; 
And below in the dell, if listening there, 
You seem to hear the voice of prayer, 
And you murmur, surely God is there. 



READINGS WITH LESSON TALKS. 29 

Around, around — above, above, 

In air, in air — everywhere, everywhere. 

3. 'Tis a charming place, this farmer's dell, 
Where the busy echoes faint and swell ; 
Even the birds have learned their notes 
Are answered back from fairy throats. 
The rocks so bare, and brown and still, 
Resound with the notes of the whippoorwill ; 
And even the sombre hemlock tree 
Repeats the song of the chick-a-dee. 

4. Oh ! hie to the place where the echoes meet, 
Down in the farmer's sylvan retreat; 

The melody there you never have heard ; 
Sing but a line, or even a word, 
And the mimicking rogues repeat the strain, 
And a chorus answers back again. 

5. But the pleasantest hours are soonest sped, 
And the midday sun is overhead. 

Just now, while listening down in the dell, 
Far away the sound of the old church-bell 
With its iron tongue chimed the hour of noon ; 

Bell, bell— bell, bell— bell, bell, 
Bell, bell— bell, bell— bell, bell. 

Oh ! the echoes! how they shout ! 
Merrily, merrily in and out ; 

Shout, shout! — bound, bound — hollo — hollo ! 
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha !— follow, follow. 

Mrs. H. M. Miller. 



30 READINGS WITH LESSON TALKS. 



LESSON TALK. 

The power of a reader to hold the audience in descriptive selections like this 
depends almost altogether upon his ability to make the scenes described vivid to the 
imagination of the hearers. To make this especial selection suggestive depends 
largely upon the power to suggest distance and simulate an echo. 

1. Assume a bright, expectant attitude. The physical attitude has a subtle but 
positive reflex upon the voice. Extend the right arm as in Figure 2, thus calling 
the hearers' attention at once to your story. Let the arm sink naturally and 
gracefully to the side while you are absorbed in the description of the dell. 

Seek to feel the influence of the spot and the time yourself. You do not feel 
the same influence from twilight that you do from the '" noon-tide glory " of the 
sun, hence you will naturally soften the voice in referring to the former, and will 
give a more glowing description of the latter. Send the voice out full, rich and 
free with every call, just as you would call in the forest to companions at a distance. 
Throw up the arm and hand in glad exultation, Then resound the echo in a tone 
one key higher and resounded in the cavity of the mouth rather than sent freely 
forth, all the while maintaining a listening attitude and looking expectantly 
towards your audience. 

2. Have all localities definitely fixed in your own mind — the direction in 
which the farm and its dell he. the direction of the town. In the first line of this 
verse sweep the right hand out freely to point towards the distant farm, then 
indicate the ' cushion of moss," then the overhanging vines Let the hand fall 
freely and gently open in these gestures. Take care never to have gesture in easy 
descriptive or conversational pieces, either abrupt or angular. In 4th line, let the 
attitude indicate the uplifted mind and soul, sinking the voice to express reverent 
emotion . In the last three lines make the silence, the hush, a positive one, by your 
own attitude and stilled, hushed tones, taking care however to keep the mind on 
the farthest of your audience, so as to influence your softest tones to reach them, 

3. Assume again the bright animated attitude expressive of bounding life and 
joy in nature. No gestures are necessary here. Too many gestures are always 
to be avoided. They are in good taste only when absolutely needed to make vivid 
the pictures. Speak in an easy, conversational tone here, the more conversational 
the better. Talk with your audience, not over their heads or at them. 

4. Use again the gesture of signalling (Figure 8), beckon your audience with 
you. Then let that gesture glide easily into one pointing towards the farm, letting 
the hand fall easily to the side as you tell in joyous tones of the musical treat in 
that dell. 

5. Again, the interested, conversational tone. In third line assume again the 
listening attitude but. looking expectantly towards your audience, point far away 
to the church, and read the line in a tone indicating that you are now hearing the 
bell far away and the very spell of the sound causes you to speak in a similar tone 
This is no trick ; we do it constantly in everyday life. We naturally seek to imi- 
tate sounds in the effort to describe them. 



READINGS WITH LESSON TALKS. 31 

THE FOOT=BALL GAME. 

i. I - ^ OR weeks an impatient crowd of admirers had followed the 
1 various reports of the condition of the two teams. They 

were old rivals, though for years the opposing college had 
held the championship and Tucker's college the second place. This 
year Mcllvaine and Plummer felt that they must win the game and 
everything had been done to strengthen the men. 

As the teams came out of the club-house at a run when the great 
game was called, a roar went up from the 20,000 spectators who 
gathered about the arena. Public opinion was so evenly divided 
between the two teams that when one shout went for the boys in scarlet 
an equally loud one came from the other side of the field to cheer on 
the lads in gold. While the teams met in the centre of the field and 
received their last warnings from the umpire, Tucker's eyes roved 
over the vast audience. Countless pretty faces and bright bonnets 
were clustered in the grand stand commingling the scarlet and the gold 
of the contending forces. Some such thought as this half flashed 
through Tucker's mind: 

"If we win I will send that little . Puritan the biggest bunch of the 
yellowest chrysanthemums in the market. If we don't win — well, 
I will let some other fellow send her red ones." 

2. The Avearers of the scarlet jackets took the ball and as the wind 
was so light as to be almost imperceptible the choice of goals was not 
of much importance. The teams lined up in the centre of the field and 
then with heads down and in compact shape the scarlet V started up 
the field as though shot from a catapult. The first half passed without 
a point for either side and so evenly were they matched and so fiercely 
did each side dispute the ground that neither had come nearer than 
the twenty-five yard line of either goal. 

3. When they came forward for the second half each player seemed 
to lose his individuality and feel himself a mere portion of a huge 
engine which at a given signal would be hurled with fearful force 
at another engine of equal weight and size. Owing to his place at -full 



32 READINGS WITH LESSON TALKS. 

back Tucker remained cooler than the majority, and for the first thirty- 
minutes of the second half he simply played a careful, conservative 
game. Then as he siw the time pass and still no score, his temper 
began to rise and twice he took desperate chances in going round the 
end for small gains. When forty minutes had passed the golden line 
had pushed the ball close up to the opponents' fifteen yard line and 
there they lost it after some hard play. 

4. A light breeze started at the moment from behind the goal posts 
and Tucker saw the big scarlet full-back prepare for a long kick down 
the field and he retired almost to the centre. His captain saw him and 
signalled for him to come up closer. It was in vain. The next 
moment the leather oval was swinging through the air, and, borne by 
the breeze, swept toward the southern goal. 

5. Calculating its descent with unerring accuracy Tucker paused 
and then dashing forward caught it as it fell, and at top speed made 
for the two tall posts where the scarlet veterans were. The field was 
scattered, but at twenty-five yards he found himself hemmed in on the 
left and front, by a solid mass of red. With a quick turn that did not 
diminish his speed, he swerved to the right and sprang ahead, shaking 
off the huge guard and agile end of the opposing team. The goal was 
not five yards away now, but could he reach it ? Between him and the 
goal stood one man — the wiry and terrible scarlet half-back, who was 
poised forward, prepared for the shock. 

6. Gathering every effort of his muscles together, Tucker stamped 
one foot on the ground and with a mighty spring, threw himself head- 
first over his opponent's head. Taken by surprise the man in scarlet 
missed his hold upon the waist and clasped him by the feet instead. 
The impetus of his spring carried him to the edge of the white goal 
line, and with a wrench he dragged himself over it — and then half 
a ton of yelling humanity fell on top of him. The crowd on the 
eastern stand, where a blaze of golden ribbons and flags told of their 
sympathies, let loose a yell, Yet even amidst the pandemonium every 
eye was on the little heap of players at the goal posts. 

7. When, at last, as one by one the men in scarlet picked themselves 



READINGS WITH LESSON TALKS. 33 

from off the pile, there was found at the bottom a bloody, disheveled 
figure clad in yellow with the pig skin clasped tightly to his breast. 
With a quick movement four men picked him up and carried him 
towards the club house at the other end of the field. 

8. To do this they had to pass the entire length of the grandstand. 
The cortege went slowly, and as soon as the spectators realized the 
nature of the case, a wave of silence flew over them and not a sound 
could be heard. Suddenly there was a slight scream and a half hysteri- 
cal cry, and a young girl clad in dark gray with a huge pompon 
of scarlet ribbon at her throat darted hurriedly through the gates under 
the ropes, and before the men had reached the club house she was 
beside them. Tucker's head all bloody and bruised was falling back. 
She placed her hand under it and supported it until the men laid 
their burden on a little canvas cot which was there for emergencies 
such as this. Then while the doctor made his examination she paced 
up and down the club house porch, an aching sensation of grief and 
agony gnawing at her heart. 

9. " It is a mere trifle," said the doctor, looking down with pity 
into her white, drawn face when he came out, "Some ribs and the 
collar bone are broken and he has been kicked in the head, but I do 
not think, Miss Lea, that it will result fatally." 

"May — may I go in to see him," she said nervously. 
"Why, of course," cried the doctor, quickly drawing her into the 
shaded room and routing the crowd of curious onlookers. 

10. Amy said nothing but sank beside Cecil and began to wash the 
blood stains from his face. The doctor regarded her for a moment 
half gently, half quizzically and then set to work to bring his patient 
to consciousness. Restoratives were applied and gradually a faint 
color stole up to the cheeks, of the young giant. Then came a flutter- 
ing of an eyelid and a long, quivering sigh. Tucker opened his eyes 
languidly. 

" Now you will be all right in a minute," cried the doctor cheerily, 
as he gave him a. glass of cordial. The patient drank it hurriedly, his 
eyes fixed the whole while on the girl who knelt beside him. He 
3 



34 READINGS WITH LESSON TALKS. 

started to say something but Amy put her fingers on his lips, saying •. 
" Not now. When you are stronger." 

In a few minutes the doctor left them and the wounded man turned 
toward her. 

"Amy!" he whispered weakly. 

"Yes, dear, you are doing nicely," she whispered back. Then 
glancing around to see that no one was looking she bent over him and 
kissed him tenderly on the lips. "That's to pay you back now that I 
am stronger than you." 

Then Tucker said a strange thing. 

"Amy," he whispered, "do you know how the score stands?" 

"Six to nothing, in our favor," she replied, and Tucker as though 
overwhelmed by joy — fainted. — Robert Copland. 

LESSON TALK. 

In a presenting a selection like this, where physical powers and skill are the 
dominant theme, the reader's body must speak eloquently as well as the brain and 
tongue, and therefore must be alive in every part. Let there be no heaviness, 
deadness anywhere. Come to your audience brimming full of enthusiasm for your 
theme. Let attitude and voice express expectancy. Remember, the whole body 
gestures, and no parts so subtly and effectively as the eyes, the face about the lips, 
and the chest. Unless the speaker personifies and thus vivifies his theme, he is a 
mere repeater of words. 

1. Begin easily, so as to allow for increasing action and intensity. Have all 
points of localizing fixed definitely in your own mind, so as not to confuse the 
audience — the club house, the spectators, the arena, etc. Give Tucker's soliloquy 
in an undertone, taking care to have it distinct enough to reach all your hearers. 

2. Point out definitely each player or group you mention, or when necessary 
the position of the ball. 

3. Follow the game with a concise, rapid, concentrated utterance — in fact suit 
your mental action, and thus your voice to the action of the players. Play the 
game as you talk about it. Live over the scenes yourself and you will have no 
difficulty in making them live in the imagination of your hearers. 

4. Here is a critical point. Let voice and your own facial expression show 
plainly the increasing intensity. In rapid succession stand for Tucker, then the 
captain ; sweep out the right arm and trace the course of the ball. 

5. Let there be a constantly progressing gain of intensity and momentum. 
Show Tucker's dash ; indicate, with rapid right hand, the position of the field. 
Suggest his quick turn and definitely indicate the " wiry and terrible scarlet half- 
back " and his poise. 



READINGS WITH LESSON TALKS. 35 

6. Stand yourself for Tucker, taking a strong poise. Indicate the spring with 
a gesture of the arm rather than any attempt at a realistic picturing. 

7 and 8. Here is a chance for a good breathing spell, so to speak, and by this 
very let-up in the tension of voice and action, make sharp and distinct the antithe- 
sis of the preceding scene and this. The doctor will speak in cool, calm, profess- 
ional tones ; the young girl, timidly, brokenly, nervously. 

io. Make the last scene as delicately suggestive as possible — suggestive is the 
highest form of art, not the realistic — and expression oratory is the highest of the 
fine arts. In this, and for that matter in all selections, original with yourself or 
from authors interpreted by you, take care to make your points of thought clear, 
definite, sharp. It is the keenly analytical speaker who holds the minds of others. 
No glow of enthusiasm or flow of words can make up for brilliancy and keenness 
of intellectual action. 

THE RACE OF THE BOOMERS. 

[When the Government opens a new section, or strip, of territory to settlers, 
none can enter until a certain day and hour, in order that all may have an equal 
chance to stake out and secure the best claims. The wild rush that follows the 
signal for the settlers to enter is described in this graphic reading.] 

THE break o' the dawn, and the plain is a-smoke with the breath 
of the frost, 
And the murmur of bearded men is an ominous sound in the ear j 
The white tents liken the ground to a flower-meadow embossed 
By the bloom of the daisy sweet, for a sign that June is here. 

They are faring from countless camps, afoot or ahorse, may be, 
The blood of many a folk may flow in their bounding veins, 

But, stung by the age-old lust for land and for liberty, 

They have ridden or run or rolled in the mile-engulfing trains. 

More than the love of loot, mightier than woman's lure, 

The passion that speeds them on, the hope that is in their breast; 

They think to possess the soil, to have and to hold it sure, 
To make it give forth of fruit in this garden wide of the West. 

But see! It is sun-up now, and six hours hence is noon; 

The crowd grows thick as the dust that muffles the roads this way ; 
The blackleg stays from his cards, the song-man ceases his tune, 

And the gray -haired parson deems it is idle to preach and pray. 



36 READINGS WITH LESSON TALKS. 

Now thirst is a present pain and hunger a coming dread, 
Water is dear as gold, as the heat grows fierce apace ; 

Theft is a common deed for the price of a bit of bread, 

And poison has played its part to sully the morning's face. 

The hours reel on, and tense as a bow-cord drawn full taut 

Is the thought of the Boomers all; a sight that is touched with awe; 

A huddle of men and horse to the frenzy pitch upwrought, 
A welter of human-kind in the viewless grip of the Law. 

Lo ! women are in the press, by scores they are yonder come 
To find a footing in front — ah, how can they gain a place? 

Nay, softly, even here in the rabble are harbored some 

Who think of their mothers, wives, who remember a fairer face. 

For the black mass yawns to let these weak ones into the line, 

While as many men fall back : 'tis knighthood nameless and great, 

Since it means goodbye to a claim — yea, the end of a dream divine, 
To be lord of the land, and free for to follow a larger fate. 

High noon with a fusilade of guns and a deep, hoarse roar, 

With a panting of short, sharp breaths in the mad desire to win, 

Over the mystic mark the seething thousands pour, 

As the zenith sun glares down on the rush and the demon's din. 

God ! what a race ; all life merged in the arrowy flight ; 

Trample the brother down, murder, if need be so, 
Ride like the wind and reach the Promised Land ere night, 

The Strip is open, is ours, to build on, harrow and sow. 

There comes a horror of flame, for look, the grass is afire! 

On, or it licks our feet, on, or it chokes our breath ! 
Swift through the cactus fly, swift, for it kindles higher ; 

Home and love and, life — or the hell of an awful death. 

So, spent and bruised and scorched, down trails thick-strewn with hopes 
A wreck, did the Boomers race to the place they would attain : 



READINGS WITH LESSON TALKS. 37 

Seizing it, scot and lot, ringing it round with ropes, 

The homes they had straitly won through fire and blood and pain 

While ever up from the earth, or fallen far through the air, 

Goes a shuddering ethnic moan, the saddest of all sad sounds ; 

The cry of an outraged race that is driven otherwhere, 

The Indian's heart-wrung wail for ftis hapless Hunting Grounds. 

Richard Burton. 

LESSON TALK. 

The first line gives the key-note of this selection. It is tragedy — commonplace 
and homely, but nevertheless tragic and pathetic in its own way. There is an 
ominous undertone running through it from beginning to end. 

The reader must be in sympathetic relation to his story. His attitude, facial 
expression and every gesture must give a trend to the thoughts of his hearers 
before he speaks a word. If he realizes keenly and sympathetically what a tragedy 
it all is, his voice will readily report attitude, both of body and of mind. 

Assume an attitude as if seeing afar, at the moment, the terrible scene. The 
voice should be low-pitched and filled with sympathetic dread. 

Bring out the pictures — word-pictures — as vividly as possible. Do not hurry — 
do not hurry ever in presenting thoughts. It takes time, infinitessimal though it 
seem to human powers of measurement, for the voice to travel to the ears of the 
hearers and then for the thought to travel to their consciousness. Let the mind 
poise on the salient points, thus making them definite and in sharp relief against 
the general background of the theme. This does not mean a dragging of the 
reading — it is poising of mind, time for intense thought, not a stopping of mental 
action. 

Let the recitation gain constantly in intensity and force. 

Wherever a bit of beatitiful description occurs, as for instance in the latter part 
of the first verse, lighten the voice and soften the expression to make the relief 
positive and sharpen the antitheses. Bring out in full, generous tones the tribute 
to innate chivalric manhood in the eighth and ninth verses. 

It is the lights and shadows that bring out the oil-painting and make a great 
work of art so far as technique is concerned. The laws of art are universal and 
thus are as true of word-painting as of that by the brush. 

The verse next to the last marks the climax. Pause long after it to let the 
effect deepen, of what has gone before and of what is to come, and then tell the last 
of the sad story in subdued, sympathetic tones. If the interpretation of this poem 
fails to hold up the brotherhood of man and incite greater realization of the tragedy 
of every day, homely life all about us, it has failed utterly of its true intent. The 
reader who fails to elevate and inspire his hearers, falls short of his high calling. 



38 READINGS WITH LESSON TALKS. 

THE INVENTOR'S WIFE. 

IT'S easy to talk of the patience of Job. Humph ! Job hed nothin' 
to try him ! 
Ef hed been married to 'Bijah Brown, folks wouldn't have dared 
come nigh him. 
Trials, indeed ! Now I'll tell you what — ef you want to be sick of 

your life, 
Jest come and change places with me a spell — for I'm an inventor's 
wife. 

And sech inventions ! I'm never sure, when I take up my coffee-pot, 
That 'Bijah hain't been "improvin' " it, and it mayn't go off like a shot. 
Why, didn't he make me a cradle once, that would keep itself a-rockin' ; 
And didn't it pitch the baby out, and wasn't his head bruised shockin' ? 

And there was his "Patent Peeler," too — a wonderful thing, I'll say; 
But it hed one fault — it never stopped till the apple was peeled away. 
As for locks, and clocks, and mowin' machines, and reapers, and all 

sech trash, 
Why, 'Bijah's invented heaps of 'em, but they don't bring in no cash. 

Law ! that don't worry him — not at all ; he's the aggravatin'est man — 
He'll set in his little workshop there, and whistle, and think, and plan, 
Inventin' a jew's-harp to go by steam, or a new-fangled powder-horn, 
While the children's goin' barefoot to school and the weeds is chokin' 
our corn. 

When I've been forced to chop the wood, and tend to the farm beside, 
And look at 'Bijah a-settin there, I've jest dropped down and cried. 
We lost the hull of our turnip crop while he was inventin' a gun ; 
But I counted it one of my marcies when it bu'st before 'twas done. 

So he turned it into a " burglar alarm." It ought to give thieves a 

fright — 
'Twould scare an honest man out of his wits, ef he sot it off at night. 



READINGS WITH LESSON TALKS. 39 

Sometimes I wonder ef 'Bijah's crazy, he does such cur'ous things. 
Hev I told you about his bedstead yit ? — ' Twas full of wheels and 
springs ; 

It had a key to wind it up, and a clock face at the head ; 
All you did was to turn them hands, and at any hour you said, 
That bed got up and shook itself, and bounced you on the floor, 
And then shet up, jest like a box, so you couldn't sleep any more. 

Wa'al 'Bijah he fixed it all complete, and he sot it at half-past five, 
But he hadn't more'n got into it when — dear me ! sakes alive ! 
Them wheels began to whiz and whir ! I heerd a fearful snap ! 
And there was that bedstead, with 'Bijah inside, shet up jest like a trap! 

I screamed, of course, but 'twan't no use; then I worked that hull 

long night 
A-tryin' to open the pesky thing. At last I got in a flight; 
I couldn't hear his voice inside, and I thought he might be dyin; 
So I took a crow-bar and smashed it in. — There was ' Bijah, peacefully 

lyin', 

Inventin' a way to git out again. That was all very well to say, 
But I don't b'lieve he'd have found it out if I'd left him in all day. 
Now, sence I've told you my story, do you wonder I'm tired of life? 
Or think it strange I often wish I warn't an inventor's wife ? 

Mrs. E. T. Corbett. 

LESSON TALK. 

It is plain that Mrs. 'Bijah Brown is very much vexed with Mr. Brown. The 
tone and manner should show this and give expression to the contempt she feels 
for a man who does not even chop the wood, but wastes his time " inventin' a jews-» 
harp to go by steam." There is also a vein of ridicule in this selection which you 
should show by an occasional half-sneering laugh, a toss of the head, and a gesture 
of the arm downward and back, shown in Figure 4, Part I. 

This reading affords an excellent opportunity to produce effect by emphasis 
on words and clauses, for example, the word "him " in the first line, and " me " 
in the fourth. The character of 'Bijah should be personified by a slow, drawling 
utterance. When you reach the part where he is pictured as shut inside his bed- 
stead, let there be a marked increase of animation and dramatic expression. Employ 
the easy, conversational tone throughout. 



40 READINGS WITH LESSON TALKS. 

TRUE PATRIOTISM. 

T "THAT is patriotism ? Is it a narrow affection for the spot where 
\\[_ a man was born ? Are the very clods where we tread 
entitled to this ardent preference because they are greener? 
No, sir : this is not the character of the virtue, and it soars higher for 
its object. It is an extended self-love, mingling with all the enjoyments 
of life, and twisting itself with the minutest filaments of the heart. It 
is thus we obey the laws of society, because they are the laws of virtue. 
In their authority we see, not the array of force and terror, but the 
venerable image of our country's honor. 

Every good citizen makes that honor his own, and cherishes it not 
only as precious, but as sacred. He is willing to risk his life in its 
defence, and is conscious that he gains protection while he gives it ; 
for what rights of a citizen will be deemed inviolable when a State 
renounces the principles that constitute their security ? Or, if his life 
should not be invaded, what would its enjoyments be in a country 
odious in the eyes of strangers and dishonored in his own ? Could he 
look with affection and veneration to such a country as his parent ? 
The sense of having one would die within him ; he would blush for his 
patriotism, if he retained any, and justly, for it would be a vice. He 
would be a banished man in his native land. — Fisher Ames. 

LESSON TALK. 

This reading, you observe, is different from any of the preceding. It affords 
no opportunity for strong dramatic expression. The sentiment is elevated, grave 
and earnest. It appeals strongly to the emotion of patriotism, and the selection 
is a fine example of oratorical composition. 

Read it with full round tones and in a manly way. Let your manner show 
that you appreciate the noble virtue here commended. You are speaking of 
patriotism , not of some trivial, unimportant matter. Make free use of the gesture 
shown in Figure i, Part I, first elevating the hand, then bringing it down, and 
letting the gesture rest on the emphatic word, or on the climax of the thought. 

With body erect, head elevated, and every nerve and muscle in active play, 
show that you have confidence in your theme and fully expect to carry conviction 
to the hearers. Let your manner be frank, your tones bold and decisive, your 
interrogations sharp, and the rising slides clear^ defined. Pause a moment after 
the questions as if you expected an answer. Put strong force into the last sentence. 




W. H. CRANE. 

'well, well! is that THE GAME?" 




VIRGINIA HARNED and SYBIL ALGER. 



NOW RESTING HERE THY HEAD, SING ONE SWEET SONG, 
AS RESTS THE BIRD UPON ITS WILLING PERCH 
AND TWITTERS TO THE COMING DAWN." 



PART III, 
Readings with Accompaniments of Music. 

[The words in this Part printed in italics are to be sung by the reader, or an assist- 
ant, to the accompanying music, or to other selections that may be preferred,] 







SANDY'S ROMANCE. 

[Written expressly for this Volume.] 

NE summer day a country youth, arrayed in kilt and plaid, 
Known well among his neighbors as an honest, manly lad, 
Was sauntering among the fields, as one might say, by chance, 
And met with an adventure that was tinctured with romance. 



To all appearance Sandy — for by this name was he known — 
To his present fine proportions had industriously grown 
Without once intimating, by a single look or word, 
That he knew there was a thing like love — of which you must have 
heard. 

A soft and hazy lustre filled the cloudless summer sky, 
And bird to bird within its nest was chirping on the sly, 
When he began to wonder, as he rambled on alone, 
If ever lie would have a mate and cottage of his own. 

Just then a maiden's merry voice rang out upon the air, 
From one not far away he knew, but could not tell just where, 
And this sweet snatch of music on the zephyrs seemed to fly — 
If a body meet a body comiri thro' the rye. 

41 



42 



READINGS WITH ACCOMPANIMENTS OF MUSIC. 




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cry? Ev -'ry las-sie has her laddie; 



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Nane,they say,ha'el; Yet a' the lads they smile on me, When comin' thro' the rye. 



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Now Sandy paused in silence and he listened with a vvill- 
If a body kiss a body — then a nameless thrill 
Ran through him as the singer he attempted to espy, 
While low and softly did she warble — need a body cry ? 



Ah, in the field of waving rye was pretty Jenny Burns, 
Her hat bedecked with heather and with gaily-woven ferns ; 
Her cheeks were fresh as roses, and the lustre of her eyes 
Would pale the light of evening stars, effulgent in the skies. 

Quoth Sandy with a merry laugh and. twinkle in his eye, 

" You asked the question in your song, if one would need to cry ; 

That 'tis easy to determine, I am sure you'll not deny ; 

I am not much used to kissing, but this time I'd like to try," 



READINGS WITH ACCOMPANIMENTS OF MUSIC. 43 

Though Jenny blushed and chided, yet she didn't shed a tear, 
But sang again her pretty song in accents loud and clear — 
Amang the train there is a swain I dearly love mysel\ 
But what's his name, or where- s his hame, I dinna choose to tell. 

Said Sandy, " If I guessed my name, would that be guessing wrong ? " 

And Jenny with a look of pride thus ended her sweet song — 

" Ev'ry lassie has her laddie, nane they say hde I, 

Yet I have found my lad to-day, when comin ' thro ' the rye ! " 

Henry Davenport. 



THE DROWNING SINGER. 

THE Sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea, 
The uttered benediction touched the people tenderly, 
And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing, lighted west, 
And then hastened to their dwellings for God's blessed boon of 
rest. 

But they looked across the waters, and a storm was raging there ; 

A fierce spirit moved above them — the wild spirit of the air — 

And it lashed and shook and tore them, till they thundered, groaned 

and boomed, 
And alas for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed ! 

Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of Wales, 
Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be telling awful tales, 
When the sea had spent its passion, and should cast upon the shore 
Bits of wreck and swollen victims, as it had done heretofore. 

With the rough winds blowing round her, a brave woman strained her 

eyes, 
And she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise. 
Oh ! it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be, 
For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on such a sea. 



44 



READINGS WITH ACCOMPANIMENTS OF MUSIC. 



Then the pitying people hurried from their homes and thronged the 

beach, 
Oh ! for power to cross the waters and the perishing to reach ! 
Helpless hands were wrung for sorrow, tender hearts grew cold with 

dread, 
And the ship, urged by the tempest, to the fatal rock shore sped. 

" She has parted in the middle ! Oh, the half of her goes down ! 
God have mercy! Is heaven far to seek for those who drown?" 
Lo! when next the white, shocked faces looked with terror on the sea, 
Only one last clinging figure on the spar was seen to be. 

Nearer the trembling watchers came the wreck, tossed by the wave, 
And the man still clung and floated, though no power on earth could 

save. 
"Could we send him a short message? Here's a trumpet. Shout 



away 



'Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wondered what to say. 

Any memory of his sermon ? Firstly ? Secondly ? Ah, no ! 
There was but one thing to utter in the awful hour of woe ; 
So he shouted through the trumpet. " Look to Jesus ! Can you hear ?" 
And " Aye, aye, sir ! " rang the answer o'er the waters loud and clear. 



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Then they listened. He is singing, "Jesus, lover of my soul!" 
And the winds brought back the echo, " While the nearer zvaters roll;" 
Strange, indeed, it was to hear him, " Till the storm of life is past" 
Singing bravely from the waters, " Oh, receive my soul at last/" 

He could have no other refuge! "Hangs my helpless soul on thee, 
Leave, ah, leave me not!" The singer dropped at last into the sea, 
And the watchers, looking homeward through their eyes with tears 

made dim, 
Said, " He passed to be with Jesus in the singing of that hymn." 

Marianne Farningham. 



F 



THE SOLDIER'S CRADLE=HYMN. 

ROM a field of death and carnage 

To the hospital was borne, 
One May morn a youthful soldier, 

With a face all white and worn. 

Day by day he pined and wasted, 

And 'twas pitiful to hear 
Through the dreary long night-watches, 

That sad call of" Mother, dear." 

Weary sufferers, moaning, tossing, 

Turned their sad eyes towards his cot ; 

But that cry was still incessant, 
The young soldier heeded not. 

It was night ; the lights burned dimly ; 

O'er the couch his mother bent 
Lovingly; with soft caresses 

Through his hair her fingers went. 



46 READINGS WITH ACCOMPANIMENTS OF MUSIC. 

But he tossed in wild delirium, 

From his pale lips still the cry, 
With that same sad, plaintive moaning, 
" Mother— come — -before — I — die." 




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Then in song her voice rose sweetly, 
On her breast she laid his head, 
" Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber, 
Holy angels guard thy bed.'" 

While she sang his moans grew fainter, 
And she watched the white lids creep 

O'er his eyes, till calm and peaceful 
In her arms he lay asleep. 

Dimmer burned the lights, and silence 
Reigned within the white-washed walls ; 

Bearded cheeks were wet with tear-stains, 
All forgot were cannon balls. 

Far off scenes rose up to memory, 

Tender thoughts — repelled so long- 
Crept into the hearts of soldiers, 
With that soothing cradle-song. 



Morning dawned ; but in the night-time 
One tired soul had upward sped — 
" Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber, 
Holy angels guard thy bed." 

Mary McGuire. 



READINGS WITH ACCOMPANIMENTS OF MUSIC. 



47 



THE CRADLE SONG. 

[The words of this selection can be recited while an assistant plays the music softly 
Make a swinging motion of the hand, keeping time to the music] 

Smoothly. 






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1. Ba - by is a sail - or boy, Swing, cradle, swing; Sailing is the sailor's joy, Swing, cradle, 

2. Snowy sails and precious freight, Swing, cradle, swing; Baby's captain, mother's mate, Swing, cradle, 

3. Never fear, the watch is set, Swing, cradle, swing; Stormy gales are never met, Swing, cradle, 

4. Little eyelids downward creep, Swing, cradle, swing ; Now he's in the cove of sleep, Swing, cradle, 




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MILKING-TIME. 

[This selection admits of recital while an assistant plays the accompanying music] 
TELL you, Kate, that Lovejoy cow 
Is worth her weight in gold ; 
She gives a good eight quarts o' milk, 
And isn't yet five years old. 



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1 



"Here comes Dick White. Please step right in;" 

"I guess I couldn't, sir, 
I've just come down" — "I know it, Dick, 

You've took a shine to her. 

"She's kind an' gentle as a lamb, 

Jest where I go she follers; 
And though it's cheap I'll let her go; 

She's your'n for thirty dollars. 

"You'll know her clear across the farm, 
By them two milk-white stars; 



48 



READINGS WITH ACCOMPANIMENTS OF MUSIC. 



You needn't drive her home at night, 
But jest le' down the bars. 










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" Then, when you've owned her, say a month, 

And learnt her, as it were, 
I'll bet — why, what's the matter, Dick?" 

"Taint her I want — it's — her/" 

"What? not the girl! well, I'll be blest! — 
There, Kate, don't drop that pan. 

You've took me mightily aback, 
But then a man's a man. 

"She's your'n, my boy, but one word more; 

Kate's gentle as a dove; 
She'll foller you the whole world round, 

For nothin' else but love. 

" But never try to drive the lass, 

Her natur's like her ma's. 
I've alius found it worked the best, 

To jest le' down the bars." 



Philip Morse. 



PART IV. 
Descriptive and Dramatic Readings. 



WEDDING BELLS. 



X yANDERING away on tired feet, 
\\L Away from the close and crowded street, 

Faded shawl and faded gown, 

Unsmoothed hair of a golden brown, 

Eyes once bright 

With joyous light, 
Away from the city's smoke and din, 
Trying to flee from it and sin ; 

In shame cast down, 

'Neath the scorn and frown 
Of those who had known her in days that were flown ; 
The same blue eyes — the abode of tears, 
The once light heart — the abode of fears, 
While dark despair came creeping in, 
As she fled from the city's smoke and din ; 

With a yearning sigh, 

And a heart-sick cry — 
" Oh, to wander away and die ! 
God, let me die on my mother's grave, 
'Tis the only boon I dare to crave ! " 

And she struggled on, 

With a weary moan, 

In the noon-day heat, 

From the dusty street ; 
(4) 49 



5a • DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

And they turned to gaze on the fair young face, 
And marveled much at her beauty and grace. 
What cared they if her heart was aching ? 
How knew they that her heart was breaking? 

Forth from the West the red light glowed, 
And the weary feet still kept on their road, 
Wand'ring on in the golden sheen, 
Where the country lanes were fresh and green. 
The red light gleamed on the village tower, 
And lit up the clock at the sunset hour ; 

And still her cry 

Was, " Oh, to die ! 
God, let me die on my mother's grave, 
'Tis the only boon I care to crave ! " 
The sun uprose, and the light of day 
Brightly scattered the clouds of gray ; 

And the village was gay 

For a holiday. 
Merrily echoed the old church bells, 
Peal on peal, o'er the hills and dells ; 
Borne away on the morning breeze 
Over the moorland, over the leas ; 
Back again with a joyous clang! 
Merrily, cheerilv, on they rang ! 
But they woke her not, she slumbered on, 
With her head laid down on the cold gray stone. 

The village was bright 

In the gladsome light, 
And the village maidens were clad in white, 

As side by side 

They merrily hied, 
In gay procession, to meet the bride ; 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 51 

Strewing the path of the village street 
With choicest flowers for her dainty feet. 
A joyful chime of the bells again, 
To proclaim the return of the bridal train ; 
A louder peal from the old church-tower 
(As the bride passes on through the floral bower, 
With the bridegroom happy, tender and gay), 
And the echoes are carried away, away ; 
But they linger awhile o'er the tombstones gray ; 
And the sleeper awakes with a yearning cry — 
" Oh, to die ! oh, to die ! 
God let me die on my mother's grave, 
'Tis all my broken heart can crave ! " 
And she lays her head again on the stone, 
With a long-drawn breath and a sobbing moan; 
While the bridal train (with many a thought 
Unspoken of omens with evil fraught) 
Sweeps down the path from the old church door, 
And the bells' glad music is wafted once more 
Over the moorland, over the heath — 
But they wake her not, for her sleep is death ! 

Why does the bridegroom's cheek turn pale ? 
Why in his eyes such a look of bale ? 
Why does he totter, then quicken his pace 
As he catches a glimpse of the poor dead face ? 

Oh, woe betide, 

That so fair a bride 
As she who steps with such grace by his side, 
Should have faced grim death on her wedding-day ! 
Did this thought trouble the bridegroom gay, 
And dash from his eye the glad light away ? 
I wist not ; for never a word he spoke, 
And soon from his face the troubled look 



52 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Was gone, and he turned to his beautiful bride 
With a radiant smile and a glance of pride : 

And his eye was bright, 

And his step was light, 
As would beseem with her by his side. 
Oh, his smile is glad, and his heart is brave ! 
What cares he for the dead on the grave? 
The faded shawl, and faded gown, 
And unsmoothed hair of golden brown ? 
Why should the face on the tombstone gray 
Trouble him on his wedding-day ? 
Forgotten words that were long since spoken, 
Thoughts of vows that were made to be broken ? 

Fling them away ! 

Be joyous and gay ! 
Death will never a secret betray. 
Quaff the red wine, the glasses ring ; 
Drink ! till the gloomy thoughts take wing ; 
Drink and be merry, merry and glad ! 
With a bride so lovely, who would be sad ? 

Hark ! the wedding bells are ringing, 
Over the hills their echoes flinging ; 
Carried away on the morning breeze 
Over the moorland, over the leas, 
Riding back on the zephyr's wing, 
Joyously, merrily, on they ring ! 
But she will not wake, her sleep is deep, 
And death can ever a secret keep. 

Ah ! thy smile may be glad and thy heart may be brave, 
And the secret be kept betwixt thee and the grave ; 
But shouldst thou forget it for one short day, 
In the gloom of night, from the tombstone gray, 
Will come the sound of a wailing cry — 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 53 

"Oh, to die! oh, to die! " 
And the bride at thy bosom will raise her head 
In affright, as she hears thee call on the dead 
In a ghastly dream, on whose wings are borne 
The memories of thy wedding morn ! 

Oh, the woeful sight of the pale, dead face, 
With the cold, dank stone for its resting-place! 
Oh, the mocking chime of the old church bell ! 
It shall seem to peal from the mouth of hell ; 
Into thy dreams its echoes bringing, 
Merrily, madly, ceaselessly ringing ! 

The white face shall haunt thee ! 

The bells they shall taunt thee ! 
Echoed and tossed on the withering breath 
Of a curse that shall cling round thy soul till death. 

Charlotte M. Griffiths. 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 

AN INCIDENT OF THE CRIMEAN WAR. 



,APTAIN GRAHAM, the men were sayin' 



c 



Ye would want a drummer lad, 
So I've brought my boy Sandie, 

Tho' my heart is woeful sad ; 
But nae bread is left to feed us, 

And no siller to buy more, 
For the gudeman sleeps forever, 

Where the heather blossoms o'er. 



" Sandie, make your manners quickly, 
Play your blithest measure true— 



54 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Give us ' Flowers of Edinboro ', 
While yon fifer plays it too. 

Captain, heard ye e'er a player 
Strike in truer time than he ? " 
"Nay, in truth, brave Sandie Murray 
Drummer of our corps shall be." 

" I give ye thanks — but, Captain, maybe 

Ye will hae a kindly care 
For the friendless, lonely laddie, 

When the battle wark is sair ; 
For Sandie's eye been good and gentle, 

And I've nothing else to love, 
Nothing — but the grave off yonder, 

And the Father up above." 

Then, her rough hand gently laying 

On the curl-encircled head, 
She blessed her boy. The tent was silent, 

And not another word was said ; 
For Captain Graham was sadly dreaming 

Of a benison, long ago, 
Breathed above his head, then golden, 

Bending now, and touched with snow. 

" Good-bye, Sandie." " Good-bye, mother, 

I'll come back some summer day ; 
Don't you fear — they don't shoot drummers 

Ever. Do they, Captain Gra ? 

One more kiss — watch for me, mother, 

You will know 'tis surely me 
Coming home — for you will hear me 

Playing soft the reveille." 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 55 

After battle. Moonbeams ghastly 

Seemed to link in strange affright, 
As the scudding clouds before them 

Shadowed faces dead and white ; 
And the night-wind softly whispered, 

When low moans its light wing bore — 
Moans that ferried spirits over 

Death's dark wave to yonder shore. 

Wandering where a footstep careless 

Might go splashing down in blood, 
Or a helpless hand lie grasping 

Death and daisies from the sod — 
Captain Graham walked swift onward, 

While a faintly-beaten drum 
Quickened heart and step together ; 

"Sandie Murray! See, I come! 

"It is thus I find you, laddie? 
Wounded, lonely, lyingjiere, 
Playing thus the reveille ? 

See — the morning is not near." 
A moment paused the drummer boy, 
And lifted up his drooping head : 
"Oh, Captain Graham, the light is coming, 
'Tis morning, and my prayers are said. 

" Morning ! See the plains grow brighter — 

Morning — and I'm going home ; 
That is why I play the measure, 

Mother will not see me come ; 
But you'll tell her, won't you, Captain — " 

Hush, the boy has spoken true ; 
To him the day has dawned forever, 

Unbroken by the night's tattoo. 



56 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

THE OLD MAN IN THE PALACE CAR. 



"T "TELL, Betsey, this beats everything our eyes have ever seen ! 
j/V We're ridin' in a palace fit for any king or queen ■ 

We didn't go as fast as this, nor on such cushions rest, 
When we left New England years ago to seek a home out West. 

We rode through this same 'country , but not as we now ride — 
You sat within a stage coach, while I trudged on by your side 
Instead of riding on a rail, I carried one you know, 
To pry the old coach from the mire through which we had to go. 

Let's see ; that's fifty years ago — just arter we were wed ; 

Your eyes were then like diamonds bright, your cheeks like roses red, 

Now, Betsey, people call us old, and push us off one side, 

Just as they have the old slow coach in which we used to ride. 

I wonder if young married folks to-day would condescend 
To take a weddin' tour like ours, with a log house at the end? 
Much of the sentimental love that sets young cheeks aglow 
Would die to meet the hardships cf fifty years ago. 

Our love grew stronger as we toiled ; though food and clothes were 

coarse, 
None ever saw us in the courts a huntin' a divorce ; 
Love levelled down the mountains and made low places high ; 
Love sang a song - to cheer us when clouds and winds were nigh. 

I'm glad to see the world move on, to hear the engine's roar, 
And all about the cables stretchin' now from shore to shore. 
Our mission is accomplished ; with toil we both are through ; 
The Lord just let us live awhile to see how young folks do. 

Whew ! Betsey, how we're flyin' ! See the farms and towns go by ! 
It makes my gray hair stand on end ; it dims my failin' eye. 




CAROLINE MISKEL. 



OFT HAVE I READ IN THAT ROUND STAR— 

THE EYE OF NIGHT— THOUGHTS THAT WERE NOT 

OF HUMAN BRAIN." 




WILSON BARRETT. 



AMBITION'S DEBT IS PAID! 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 57 

Soon we'll be through our journey and in the house so good 
That stands within a dozen rods of where the log one stood. 

How slow — like old-time coaches — our youthful years went by — 
The years when we were livin' neath a bright New England sky ; 
Swifter than palace cars now fly our later years have flown, 
Till now we journey hand in hand down to the grave alone. 

I hear the whistle blowin' on life's fast flyin' train ; 

Only a few more stations in the valley now remain. 

Soon we'll reach the home eternal, with its glories all untold, 

And stop at the best station in the city built of gold. 

John H. Yates. 

THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 



IT HAD rained all night. Water lay here and there in the hollows 
of the plain, as in basins. At some points the wheels sank to the 
axles. The horses' girths dripped with liquid mud. The affair 
opened late. The plan of the battle which had been conceived was 
indeed admirable. Ney drew his sword, placed himself at the head, 
and the immense squadrons began to move. Then was seen a fearful 
sight. Nothing like it had been seen since the taking of the grand 
redoubt at La Moscana by the heavy cavalry. Murat was not there ; 
but Ney was there. It seemed as if this mass had become a monster, 
and had but a single mind. Each squadron undulated and swelled 
like the ring of a polyp. They could be seen through the thick smoke 
as it was broken here and there. It was one pell-mell of casques, 
cries, sabres ; a furious bounding of horses among the canon ; a terri- 
ble, disciplined tumult. Something like this vision appeared in the old 
Orphic Epics which tell of certain antique hippanthropes, those Titans 
with human faces and chests like horses, whose gallop scaled Olympus, 
horrible, invulnerable, sublime — at once gods and beasts. 

All at once, at the left of the English, and on the French right, the 



58 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

head of the column of cuirassiers reared with frightful clamor, and there 
appeared three thousand faces with gray mustaches, crying, " Vive 
r Empereur 7" Unmanageable, full of fury and bent on extermination 
of the square and cannon, the cuirassiers saw between them and the 
English, a ditch — a grave ! It was the sunken road of Ohain. It 
was a frightful moment. There was a ravine, unlooked for, yawning 
at the very feet of the horses, two fathoms deep between its double 
slope. The second rank pushed in the first. The horses reared ; 
threw themselves over ; fell upon their backs ; struggled with their 
feet in the air, piling up and overturning their riders. Without power 
to retreat, the whole column was nothing but a projectile. The force 
acquired to crush the English crushed the French. The inexorable 
ravine could not yield until it was filled with riders and horses rolled 
in together, grinding one another, making common flesh in this dread- 
ful gulf; and when this grave was full of living men, the rest marched 
over and passed on. 

Was it possible that Napoleon should win the battle of Waterloo ? 
We answer, No ? Why ? Because of Wellington ? Because of 
Bliicher ? No. Because of God ! For Bonaparte to conquer at 
Waterloo was not in the law of the nineteenth century. It was time 
that this vast man should fall. He had been impeached before the 
Infinite ! He had vexed God ! Waterloo was not a battle. It was 
the change of front of the Universe. — Victor Hugo. 



ASLEEP AT THE SWITCH. 



THE first thing that I remember was Carlo tugging away, 
With the sleeve of my coat fast in his teeth, pulling as much as 
to say : . 
" Come, master, awake, and tend to the switch, lives now depend upon 

you, 
Think of the souls in the coming train and the -graves you're sending 
them to ; 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 59 

Think of the mother, and babe at her breast, think of the father and 

son, 
Think of the lover, and the loved one, too, think of them, doomed 

every one 
To fall, as it were, by your very hand, into yon fathomless ditch, 
Murdered by one who should guard them from harm, who now lies 

asleep at the switch." 

I sprang up amazed, scarce knew where I stood, sleep had o'ermas- 
tered me so ; 

I could hear the wind hollowly howling and the deep river dashing 
below ; 

I could hear the forest leaves rustling as the trees by the tempest were 
fanned, 

But what was that noise at a distance ? That — I could not under- 
stand ! 

I heard it at first indistinctly, like the rolling of some muffled drum, 

Then nearer and near it came to me, and made my very ears hum ; 

What is this light that surrounds me and seems to set fire to my brain ? 

What whistle's that yelling so shrilly ? Oh, Gcd ! I know now — it's 
the train. 

We often stand facing some danger, and seem to take root to the 

place ; 
So I stood with this demon before me, its heated breath scorching my 

face, 
Its headlight made day of the darkness, and glared like the eyes of 

some witch ; 
The train was almost upon me before I remembered the switch. 
I sprang to it, seizing it wildly, the train dashing fast down the track, 
The switch resisted my efforts, some devil seemed holding it back ; 
On, on came the fiery-eyed monster, and shot by my face like a flash ; 
I swooned to the earth the next moment, and knew nothing after the 

crash . 



60 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

How long I laid there unconscious were impossible for me to tell 

My stupor was almost a heaven, my waking almost a hell — 

For I then heard the piteous moaning and shrieking of husbands and 

wives, 
And I thought of the day we all shrink from, when I must account 

for their lives ; 
Mothers rushed by me like maniacs, their eyes staring madly and wild; 
Fathers, losing their courage, gave way to their grief like a child ; 
Children searching for parents, I noticed, as by me they sped, 
And lips that could form naught but "mamma" were calling for one 

perhaps dead. 

My mind was made up in a second — the river should hide me away ; 
When, under the still burning rafters, I suddenly noticed there lay 
A little white hand ; she who owned it was doubtless an object of love 
To one whom her loss would drive frantic, tho' she guarded him now 

from above ; 
I tenderly lifted the rafters and quietly laid them one side ; 
How little she thought of her journey when she left for this last fatal 

ride ; 
I lifted the last log from off her, and while searching for some spark of 

life, 
Turned her little face up in the starlight, and recognized — Maggie, my 

wife ! 

Oh, Lord ! Thy scourge is a hard one ! At a blow Thou hast shat- 
tered my pride ; 

My life will be one endless night-time with Maggie away from my side; 

How often we've sat down and pictured the scenes in our long happy 
life; 

How I'd strive through all of my life-time to build up a home for my 
wife. 

How people would envy us always in our cozy and neat little nest, 

When I would do all of the labor and Maggie should all the day rest; 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 61 

How one of God's blessings might cheer us when some day I p'r'aps 

should be rich — 
But all of my dreams have been shattered while I lay there asleep at 

the switch. 

I fancied I stood on my trial ; the jury and judge I could see, 

And every eye in the court-room was steadfastly fixed upon me ; 

And fingers were pointed in scorn, till I felt my face blushing blood- 
red, 

And the next thing I heard were the words, " Hung by the neck until 
dead." 

Then I felt myself pulled once again, and my hand caught tight hold 
of a dress, 

And I heard, "What's the matter, dear Jim? You've had a bad 
night-mare, I guess." 

And there stood Maggie, my wife, with never a scar from the ditch — 

I'd been taking a nap in my bed, and had not been asleep at the switch. 

George Hoey. 



BRIER=R05E. 



SAID Brier-Rose's mother to the naughty Brier-Rose : 
" What will become of you, my child, the Lord Almighty knows ; 
You will not scrub the kettles, and you will not touch thebroom, 
You never sit a minute still at spinning-wheel or loom." 

Thus grumbled in the morning, and grumbled late at eve, 
The good-wife as she bustled with pot and tray and sieve ; 
But Brier-Rose she laughed, and she cocked her dainty head, 
"Why, I shall marry, mother, dear," full merrily she said. 

" You marry, saucy Brier-Rose ! The man he is not found. 
To marry such a worthless wench, these seven leagues around." 



62 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

But Brier-Rose she laughed and she trilled a merry lay : 

" Perhaps he'll come, my mother dear, from eight leagues away." 

The good-wife with a " humph " and a sigh forsook the battle, 
And flung the pots and pails about with much vindictive rattle ; 
" O Lord, what sin did I commit in youthful days, and wild, 
That thou hast punished me in age with such a wayward child?" 

Up stole the girl on tip-toe, so that none her step could hear, 
And, laughing, pressed an airy kiss behind the good-wife's ear. 
And she, as e'er, relenting, sighed : " Oh Heaven only knows 
Whatever will become of you, my naughty Brier-Rose ! " 

The sun was high, and summer sounds were teeming in the air ; 
The clank of scythes, the cricket's whirr, and swelling wood-notes rare, 
From field, and copse, and meadow ; and through the open door 
Sweet, fragrant whiffs of new -mown hay the idle breezes bore. 

Then Brier-Rose grew pensive, like a bird of thoughtful mien, 
Whose little life has problems among the branches green. 
She heard the river brawling where the tide was swift and strong, 
She heard the summer singing its strange, alluring song. 

And out she skipped the meadows o'er and gazed into the sky ; 
Her heart o'er-brimmed with gladness, she scarce herself knew why, 
And to a merry tune she hummed, " O Heaven only knows 
Whatever will become of the naughty Brier-Rose ! " 

Whene'er a thrifty matron this idle maid espied 
She shook her head in warning, and scarce her wrath could hide ; 
For girls were made for housewives, for spinning-wheel and loom, 
And not to drink the sunshine, and the wild-flowers' sweet perfume. 

And oft the maidens cried, when Brier-Rose went by, 
"You cannot knit a stocking, and you cannot make a pie." 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 63 

But Brier-Rose, as was her won't, she cocked her curly head : 
" But I can sing a pretty song," full merrily she said. 

And oft the young lads shouted, when they saw the maid at play : 

" Ho, good-for-nothing Brier-Rose, how do you do to-day? " 
Then she shook her tiny fist, to her cheek the color flew : 
" However much you coax me, I'll never dance with you." 

ii. 

Thus flew the years light-winged over Brier-Rose's head, 
Till she was twenty summers old and yet remained unwed. 
And all the parish wondered : " The Lord Almighty knows 
Whatever will become of that naughty Brier-Rose ! " 

And while they wondered, came the Spring a-dancing o'er the hills ; 
Her breath was warmer than of yore, and all the mountain rills, 
With their tinkling and their rippling and their rushing, filled the air, 
And the misty sounds of water forth-welling everywhere. 

And in the valley's depth, like a lusty beast of prey, 

The river leaped and roared aloud and tossed its mane of spray ; 

Then hushed again its voice to a softly plashing croon, 

As dark it rolled beneath the sun and white beneath the moon. 

It was a merry sight to see the lumber as it whirled 
Adown the tawny eddies that hissed and seethed and swirled, 
Now shooting through the rapids and, with a reeling swing, 
Into the foam-crests diving like an animated thing. 

But in the narrows of the rocks, where, o'er a steep incline, 
The waters plunged and wreathed in foam the dark boughs of the pine, 
The lads kept watch with shout and song, and sent each straggling beam 
A-spinning down the rapids, lest it should lock the stream. 



64 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

in. 

And yet — methinks I hear it now — wild voices in the night, 
A rush of feet, a dog's harsh bark, a torch's flaring light, 
And wandering gusts of dampness, and 'round us, far and nigh, 
A throbbing boom of water, like a pulse-beat in the sky. 

The dawn just pierced the pallid east with spears of gold and red 
As we, with boat-hooks in our hands, towards the narrows sped, 
And terror smote us, for we heard the mighty tree-tops sway, 
And thunder, as of chariots, and hissing showers of spray. 

" Now, lads," the sheriff shouted, " you are strong like Norway's rock ; 
A hundred crowns I give to him who breaks the lumber-lock ! 
For if another hour go by, the angry waters' spoil 
Our homes wffl be, and fields, and our weary years of toil." 

We looked each at the other ; each hoped his neighbor would 
Brave death and danger for his home, as valiant Norsemen should ; 
But at our feet the brawling tide expanded like a lake, 
And whirling beams came shooting on, and made the firm rock quake. 

"Two hundred crowns! " the sheriff cried, and breathless stood the 

crowd. 
" Two hundred crowns, my bonny lads ! " in anxious tones and loud. 
But not a man came forward, and no one spoke or stirred, 
And nothing but the thunder of the cataract was heard. 

But as with trembling hands and with fainting hearts we stood 

We spied a little curly head emerging from the wood ; 

We heard a little snatch of a merry little song, 

And saw the dainty Brier-Rose come dancing through the throng. 

An angry murmur rose from the people 'round about. 

" Fling her into the river ! " we heard the matrons shout ; 

" Chase her away, the silly thing ; for God himself scarce knows 

Why ever he created that worthless Brier-Rose." 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 65 

Sweet Brier-Rose she heard their cries ; a little pensive smile 

Across her fair face flitted that might a stone beguile ; 

And then she gave her pretty head a roguish little cock. 

" Hand me a boat-hook, lads," she said ; " I think I'll break the lock." 

Derisive shouts of laughter broke from throats of young and old : 
" Ho ! good-for-nothing Brier-Rose, your tongue was ever bold ! " 
And, mockingly, a boat-hook into her hands was flung, 
When, lo ! into the river's midst with daring leaps she sprung ! 

We saw her dimly through a mist of dense and blinding spray ; 
From beam to beam she skipped, like a water-sprite at play ; 
And now and then faint gleams we caught of color through the mist — 
A crimson waist, a golden head, a little dainty wrist. 

In terror pressed the people to the margin of the hill, 

A hundred breaths were bated, a hundred hearts stood still, 

For hark ! from out the rapids came a strange and creaking sound, 

and then a crash of thunder which shook the very ground. 

The waters hurled the lumber mass down o'er the rocky steep ; 
We heard a muffled rumbling and a rolling in the deep ; 
We saw a tiny form which the torrent swiftly bore 
And flung into the wild abyss, where it was seen no more. 

Ah, little naughty Brier- Rose, thou couldst not weave- nor spin, 
Yet thou couldst do a nobler deed than all thy mocking kin ; 
For thou hadst courage e'en to die, and by thy death to save 
A thousand farms and lives from the fury of the wave. 

And yet the adage lives, in the valley of thy birth, 
When wayward children spend their days in heedless play and mirth, 
Oft mothers say, half smiling, half sighing, " Heaven knows 
Whatever will become of the naughty Brier-Rose ! " 

HjALMAR HTORTH BoYSEEN. 

(5) 



66 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER. 



IT WAS the seventh of October, 1777. Horatio Gates stood before 
his tent, gazing upon the two armies now arrayed in order of 
battle. It was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness 
of autumn. The sky was cloudless, the foliage of the woods scarcely 
tinged with purple and gold. But the tread of legions shook the 
ground, from every bush shot the glimmer of rifle-barrels ; on every 
hillside blazed the sharpened bayonet. Gates was sad and thoughtful 
as he watched the evolutions of the two armies. All at once a smoke 
arose, a thunder shook the ground, and a chorus of shouts and groans 
yelled along the darkened air. The play of death had begun. The 
two flags, this of the stars, that of the red cross, tossed amid the 
smoke of battle while the earth throbbed as with the pulsations of a 
mighty heart. Suddenly along the heights, on which Gates and his 
staff stood, came a rider upon a black horse, rushing towards the 
distant battle. Look ! He draws his sword. The sharp blade quivers 
through the air ; and now he is gone, gone through those clouds, 
while his shout echoes over the plains. Wherever the fight is thickest, 
there, through the intervals of cannon-smoke, you may see riding 
madly forward, that strange soldier mounted on his steed black as 
death. Look at him, as, with face red with British blood, he waves his 
sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may see him fighting in 
that cannon's glare ; and the next moment he is away off yonder, 
leading the forlorn hope up that steep cliff. 

Thus it was all the day long ; and wherever that black horse and 
his rider went, there followed victory. At last, towards the setting of 
the sun, the crisis of the conflict came. That fortress yonder, on 
Bemus Heights, must be won, or the American cause is lost. That 
cliff is too steep. That death is too certain. The officers cannot 
persuade the men to advance. The Americans have lost the field. 
Even Morgan, that iron man among iron men, leans on his rifle and 
despairs. But look yonder ! In this moment, when all is dismay, 
here, crashing on, comes the black horse and his rider. That *^der 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 67 

bends upon his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat, and dust, 
and blood. He lays his hand on that bold rifleman's shoulder ; and 
as though living fire had been poured into his veins, he seizes his rifle 
and starts toward the rock. Now look as that black steed crashes up 
the steep cliff! That steed quivers ! he totters ! he falls ! No ! no ! 
still on, still up the cliff, still on towards the fortress ! The rider turns 
his face and shouts, " Come on ! men of Quebec! come on ! " That 
call is needless. Already the riflemen are on the rock. Now, 
British cannon, pour your fires, and lay your dead upon the rock in 
tens and twenties. Now, red-coat hirelings, shout your battle-cry if 
you can ; for look ! there, in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke 
clears away, stands the black horse and his rider. That steed falls 
dead, pierced by a hundred balls. But his rider, as the British cry for 
quarter, lifts up his voice, and shouts to Horatio Gates, sitting yonder 
in his tent, "Saratoga is won!" As that cry goes up to heaven he 
falls, his leg shattered by a cannon ball. 

Who was the rider of that black horse ? Do you not guess his 
name ? Then bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you 
will see that it bears the mark of a former wound. That wound was 
received at the storming of Quebec. That rider of the black horse 
was Benedict Arnold. — George Lippard. 



ECHO AND THE FERRY. 



[The reader should imitate the echoes in this selection.] 

AY, OLIVER ! I was but seven, and he was eleven ; 
He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stood- 
They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven ! 
A small guest at the farm) ; but he said, " Oh ! a girl is no good ! " 
So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood. 
It was sad, it was sorrowful ! Only a girl — only seven ! 
At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out. 
The pear-trees looked on in their white, and blue-birds flashed about. 



68 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

And they, too, were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven ? 
I thought so. Yes, every one else was eleven — eleven ! 

So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet, 
And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was littered ; 
And under and over the branches those little birds twittered, 
While hanging head downward they scolded because I was seven. 
A pity — a very great pity! One should be eleven. 
But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet, 
And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old. 
Then I knew, for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should scold. 
Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter; 
And then some one else — oh ! how softly ! — came after, came after, 
With laughter — with laughter came after. 

And no one was near us to utter that sweet mocking call, 

That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall. 

But this was the country — perhaps it was close under heaven ; 

Oh ! nothing so likely ; the voice might have come from it even. 

I. knew about heaven. But this was the country, of this 

Light, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings, not at all, 

Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy forgiver : 

She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile small, 

Then flashed down her hole like a dart — like a dart from the quiver. 

And I waded atween the long grasses, and felt it was bliss. 

— So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure and shiver 
And whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tall 
White branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall — 
A little low wall — and looked over, and there was the river, 
The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river, 
Clear shining and slow, she had far, far to go from her snow ; 
But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long flow, 
And she murmured, methought, with a speech very soft, very low. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 69 

"The ways will be long, but the days will be long," quoth the river, 
"To me a long liver, long, long ! " quoth the river — the river. 

I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky, 
The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under. 
But at last — in a day or two namely — Eleven and I 
Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder. 
He said that was Echo. "Was Echo a wise kind of bee 
That had learned how to laugh ; could it laugh in one's ear and then fly, 
And laugh again yonder ? " " No ; Echo " — he whispered it low — 
"Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see, 
And no one could find ; and he did not believe it, not he ; 
But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder. 

Yet I that had money — a shilling, a whole silver shilling — 

We might cross if I thought I could spend it." " Oh ! yes ! " I was 

willing — 
And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry, 
And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear and 

merry 
When they called for the ferry ; but, oh ! she was very — was very 
Swift-footed. She spoke and was gone ; and when Oliver cried, 
" Hie over ! hie over ! you man of the ferry — the ferry ! " 
By the still water's side she was heard far and wide — she replied, 
And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, "You man of the 

ferry, 

You man of — you man of the ferry! " 

" Hie over ! " he shouted. The ferry man came at his calling ; 
Across the clear reed-bordered river he ferried us fast. 
Such a chase ! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on ; it surpassed 
All measure her doubling — so close, then so far away falling, 
Then gone, and no more. Oh ! to see her but once unaware, 
And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she 
was there), 



70 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Nor behold her wild eyes, and her mystical countenance fair. 
We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in her stead ; 
In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked overhead ; 
By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow, deep-nested in brown ; 
Not Echo, fair Echo, for Echo, sweet Echo, was flown. 

So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call. 
The church was among them, gray moss over roof, over wall. 
Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green, grassy mound 
And looked in at the window, for Echo perhaps, in her round 
Might have come in to hide there. But, no ; every oak-carven seat 
Was empty. We saw the great Bible — old, old, very old. 
And the parson's great prayer book beside it ; we heard the slow beat 
Of the pendulum swing in the tower ; we saw the clear gold 
Of a sunbeam float down to the aisle, and then waver and play 
On the low chancel step and the railing; and Oliver said, 
" Look, Katie ! look, Katie ! when Lettice came here to be wed 
She stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her 

gown ; 
And she stepped upon flowers they strewed for her." 

Then quoth small Seven : 

"Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever? " 
All doubtful : " It takes a long time to grow up," quoth Eleven ; 

"You're so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can never 
Last on till you're tall." And in whispers — because it was old 
And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told, 
Full of old parsons' prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk. 
Neither heard or beheld, but about us — in whispers we spoke. 
Then we went from it softly, and ran hand in hand to the strand, 
While bleating of flocks and birds' piping made sweeter the land. 

And Echo came back e'en as Oliver drew to the feny, 
" O Katie ! " " O Katie ! " " Come on, then ! " " Come on, then ! " 
" For see, 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 71 

The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree " — " by the tree." 
" By the tree." Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and 

merry ; 
' Hie over ! " " Hie over ! " " You man of the ferry " — " the ferry." 
" You man of the ferry — " 
" You man of — you man of — the ferry." 

Ay, here — it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old ; 

All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told. 

Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my white 

To that little low church ? and will Oliver meet me anon ? 

Will it all seem an echo from childhood passed over — passed on ? 

Will the grave parson bless us ? Hark ! hark ! in the dim failing 

light 
I hear her ! As then the child's voice clear and high, sweet and 

merry, 
Now she mocks the man's tone with " Hie over ! Hie over the ferry ! " 
"And, Katie." "And, Katie." "Art out with the glow-worms 
to-night, 
My Katie? " " My Katie ! " For gladness I break into laughter. 
And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years ; 
Again, some one else — oh, how softly ! — with laughter comes after, 



Comes after — with laughter comes after. 



to J 



Jean Ingelow. 



ANDRE AND HALE. 



ANDRE'S story is the one overmastering romance of the Revolu- 
tion. American and English literature are full of eloquence 
and poetry in tribute to his memory and sympathy for his fate. 
After a lapse of a hundred years there is no abatement of absorbing 
interest. What had this young man done to merit immortality ? The 
mission whose tragic issue lifted him out of the oblivion of other minor 
British officers, in its inception was free from peril or daring, and its 



72 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

object and purposes were utterly infamous. Had he succeeded by the 
desecration of the honorable uses of passes and flags of truce, his name 
would have been held in everlasting execration. In his failure, the 
infant republic escaped the dagger with which he was feeling for its 
heart, and the crime was drowned in tears for his untimely end. 

His youth and beauty, his skill with pen and pencil, his effervescing 
spirits and magnetic disposition, the brightness of his life, the calm 
courage in the gloom of his death, his early love and disappointment, 
and the image of his lost Honora hid in his mouth when captured 
in Canada with the exclamation, " That saved, I care not for the loss 
of all the rest," and nestling in his bosom when he was slain, 
surrounded him with a halo of poetry and pity which have secured for 
him what he most sought and could never have won in battles and sieges 
— a fame and recognition which have outlived that of all the generals 
under whom he served. 

Are kings only grateful, and do republics forget ? Is fame a travesty, 
and the judgment of mankind a farce? America had a parallel case 
in Captain Nathan Hale. Of the same age as Andre, he graduated 
at Yale college with high honors, enlisted in the patriot cause at the 
beginning of the contest, and secured the love and confidence of all 
about him. When none else would go on a most important and 
perilous mission, he volunteered, and was captured by the British. 
While Andre received every kindness, courtesy and attention, and was 
fed from Washington's table, Hale was thrust into a noisome dungeon 
in the sugar-house. While Andre was tried by a board of officers and 
had ample time and every facility for defence, Hale was summarily 
ordered to execution the next morning. While Andre's last wishes 
and bequests were sacredly followed, the infamous Cunningham tore 
from Hale his letters to his mother and sister, and asked him what 
he had to say. 

"All I have to say," was Hale's reply, " is that I regret I have but 
one life to lose for my country." His death was concealed for months, 
because Cunningham said he did not want the rebels to know they had 
a man who could die so bravely. And yet, while Andre rests in that 




EDWIN BOOTH. 



THE STATUES CF OUR STATELY FORTUNES 
ARE SCULPTURED BY THE CHISEL— NOT THE AXE! 
BENEATH THE RULE OF MEN ENTIRELY GREAT, 
THE PEN IS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD, 

RICHELIEU. 




ALEXANDER SALVINI. 



THERE! BRING MY LOVE THE SHATTERED GLASS- 
CHARGE ON THE FOE! NO JOYS SURPASS 
SUCH DYING!— THE TROOFER'S DEATH 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 73 

grandest of mausoleums, where the proudest of nations garners the 
remains and perpetuates the memories of its most eminent and honored, 
the name and deeds of Nathan Hale have passsed into oblivion, and 
only a simple tomb in a village churchyard marks his resting-place. 

The dying declarations of Andre and Hale express the animating 
spirit of their several armies, and teach why, with all their power, 
England could not conquer America. " I call upon you to witness 
that I die like a brave man," said Andre, and he spoke from British 
and Hessian surroundings, seeking only glory and pay. "I regret that 
I have only one life to lose for my country," said Hale ; and with him 
and his comrades self was forgotten in that absorbing, passionate 
patriotism which pledges fortune, honor and life to the sacred cause. 

Chauncey M. Depew. 



ORANGE AND GREEN. 



THE night was falling dreary, in merry Bandon town, 
When in his cottage, weary, an Orangeman lay down. 
The summer sun in splendor had set upon the vale, 
And shouts of " No surrender ! " arose upon the gale. 

Beside the waters, laving the feet of aged trees, 
The Orange banners, waving, flew boldly in the breeze — 
In mighty chorus meeting, a hundred voices join, 
And fife and drum were beating the Battle of the Boyne. 

Ha ! tow'rd his cottage hieing, what form is speeding now, 
From yonder thicket flying, with blood upon his brow? 
" Hide — hide me, worthy stranger, though green my color be, 
And in the day of danger may Heaven remember thee ! 

" In yonder vale contending alone against that crew, 
My life and limbs defending, an Orangeman I slew. 



74 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Hark ! hear that fearful warning, there's death in every tone — 
Oh save my life till morning, and Heaven prolong your own!" 

The Orange heart was melted in pity to the Green ; 
He heard the tale, and felt it his very soul within. 
"Dread not that angry warning, though death be in its tone — 
I'll save your life till morning, or I will lose my own." 

Now, round his lowly dwelling the angry torrent press'd, 
A hundred voices swelling, the Orangeman addressed — 
" Arise, arise and follow the chase along the plain ! 
In yonder stony hollow your only son is slain !" 

With rising shouts they gather upon the track amain, 
And leave the childless father agast with sudden pain. 
He seeks the frighted stranger, in covert where he lay — 
"Arise!" he said, "all danger is gone and passed away! 

" I had a son — one only, one loved as very life, 
Thy hand has left me lonely, in that accursed strife. 
I pledged my word to save thee until the storm should cease, 
I kept the pledge I gave thee — arise, and go in peace; " 

The stranger soon departed from that unhappy vale ; 
The father, broken hearted, lay brooding o'er that tale. 
Full twenty summers after to silver turned his beard ; 
And yet the sound of laughter from him was never heard. 

The night was falling dreary, in merry Wexford town, 

When in his cabin, weary, a peasant laid him down. 

And many a voice was singing along the summer vale, 

And Wexford town was ringing with shouts of " Granua Uile." 

Beside the waters, laving the feet of aged trees, 

The green flag, gayly waving, was spread against the breeze — 

In might chorus meeting, loud voices filled the town, 

And fife and drum were beating, "Down, Orangemen, lie down\ 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 75 

Hark ! ' mid the stirring clangor that woke the echoes there, 
Loud voices, high in anger, rife on the evening air. 
Like billows of the ocean he sees them hurry on — 
And, 'mid the wild commotion, an Orangeman alone. 

" My hair," he said, "is hoary, and feeble is my hand, 
And I could tell a story would shame your cruel band. 
Full twenty years and over have changed my heart and brow, 
And I am grown a lover of peace and concord now. 

"It was not thus I greeted your brother of the Green, 
When, fainting and defeated, I freely took him in. 
I pledged my word to save him from vengeance rushing on, — 
I kept the pledge I gave him, though he had killed my son." 

That aged peasant heard him, and knew him as he stood ; 
Remembrance kindly stirred him, and tender gratitude. 
With gushing tears of pleasure, he pierced the listening train, 
"I'm here to pay the measure of kindness back again ! " 

Upon his bosom falling, that old man's tears came down ; 
Deep memory recalling that cot and fatal town. 
"The hand that would offend thee my being first shall end; 
I'm living to defend thee, my savior and my friend ! " 

He said, and slowly turning, addressed the wondering crowd ; 
With fervent spirit burning, he told the tale aloud. 
Now pressed the warm beholders their aged foe to greet ; 
They raised him on their shoulders and chaired him through the 
street. 

As he had saved that stranger from peril scowling dim, 
So in his day of danger did Heaven remember him. 
By joyous crowds attended, the worthy pair were seen, 
And their flags that day were blended of Orange and of Green. 

Gerald Griffin. 



76 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 



TO A SKELETON. 



The MSS. of this poem, which appeared during the first quarter of the present 
century, was said to have been found in the Museum of the Royal College of 
Surgeons, in London, near a perfect human skeleton, and to have been sent by the 
curator to the Morning Chronicle for publication. It excited so much attention 
that every effort was made to discover the author, and a responsible party went so 
far as to offer a reward of fifty guineas for information that would discover its 
origin. The author preserved hie incoguito s and, we believe, has never been 
discovered. 

BEHOLD this ruin ! 'Twas a skull 
Once of ethereal spirit full : 
This narrow cell was Life's retreat, 
This space was Thought's mysterious seat. 
What beauteous visions filled this spot, 
What dreams of pleasure long forgot? 
Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear, 
Have left one trace of record here. 

Beneath this smouldering canopy 

Once shone the bright and busy eye, 

But start not at the dismal void, — 

If social love that eye employed, 

If with no lawless fire it gleamed, 

But through the dews of kindness beamed, 

That eye shall be forever bright 

When stars and sun are sunk in night. 

Within this hollow cavern hung 
The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue ; 
If Falsehood's honey it disdained, 
And when it could not praise was chained, 
If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke, 
Yet gentle concord never broke, — 
This silent tongue shall plead for thee 
When Time unveils Eternity ! 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 77 

Say, did these fingers delve the mine, 
Or with the envied rubies shine ? 
To hew the rock or wear a gem 
Can little now avail to them, 
But if the page of Truth they sought, 
Or comfort to the mourner brought, 
These hands a richer meed shall claim 
Than all that wait on Wealth and Fame. 

Avails it whether bare or shod 
These feet the paths of duty trod ? 
If from the bowers of Ease they fled, 
To seek Affliction's humble shed ; 
If Grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned, 
And home to Virtue's cot returned, — 
These feet with angel wings shall vie, 
And tread the palace of the sky ! 



THE MAJESTY OF TRIFLES. 



NOTHING, in fact, is small, and any one who is affected by the 
profound penetrations of nature is aware of this fact. Although 
no absolute satisfaction is granted to philosophy, and though it 
can no more circumscribe the cause than limit the effect, the contem- 
plator falls into unfathomable ecstasy when he watches all those 
decompositions of force which result in a beauteous unity. Everything 
labors for everything; algebra is applied to the clouds, the irradiation 
of the planet benefits the rose, and no thinker would dare to say that 
the perfume of the hawthorn is useless to the constellations. 

Who can calculate the passage of a molecule ? Who among us 
knows whether the creations of worlds are not determined by the fall 
of grains of sand ? Who is acquainted with the reciprocal ebb and 
flow of the infinitely great and the infinitely little ? A maggot is of 
importance, the little is great and the great little, all is in a state 



78 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

of equilibrium in nature. This is a terrific vision for the mind. There 
are prodigious relations between beings and things ; and in this inex- 
haustible total, from the flea to the sun, nothing despises the other, for 
all have need of each other. 

Light does not bear into the sky terrestrial perfumes without know- 
ing what to do with them, and night distributes the planetary essence 
to the sleepy flowers. Every bird that flies has round its foot the 
thread of infinity ; germination is equally displayed in the outburst 
of a meteor and the peck of the swallow breaking the egg, and it places 
the birth of a worm and the advent of Socrates in the same parallel. 
Where the telescope ends the microscope begins, and which of the two 
has the grandest sight? You can choose. A patch of green mold is 
a pleiad of flowers, and a nebula is an ant-hill of stars. — Victor Hugo. 



THE FIRE. 



ri 



[An excellent reading for rapid modulations of voice, and dramatic effect.] 

J JUSH, hark, that knell ! 

What means that bell — 

That rousing swell ? 

It dies, it sinks in parted links. 

Again it thrills ! Again it fills ! 
Waking, shaking, leaping higher, 
Hoarse and deep with embodied fire. 

See that smoke ! See that cloud I 
Darker, denser, wider growing, 
Rising, falling, searching, blowing. 

Again that stroke ! See that crowd J 
Rushing, pushing, shouting, yelling, 
Love to save, each bosom swelling — - 
Swelling, swelling, swelling. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 79 

Place the engine ! Seize the hose ! 
Let the water boldly float 
On the fiendish fiery foes, 
And the engine puff her throat. 

O the flames ! O the flames ! 
Winding, wafting, twisting, turning, 
Cracking, scorching, blazing, burning ! 
Burning, burning, burning ! 

Hear those names ! Hear those claims ! 
Save me, father ! Save me,- mother ! 
Sister, save me ! Save me, brother ! 
hear our angel baby's cry ! 
No more. Its lips in ashes lie. 

Hush! that clash ! Gods, that crash ! 
Madly rising, tearing, dashing ! 
Wildly flouncing, flaring, flashing ! 
Red flames lash the broken sash. 

Hark, hark, within — a breath, a din ! 
Groaning, moaning, clinging, grasping, 
Life on fire, a fireman clasping ! 
Clasping, clasping, clasping ! 
Such love of kin should glory win. 

Now, now you see the flames are free ! 
Sprouting, spreading, waving, soaring, 
Plunging, tossing, raging, roaring, 
In one hot sea of dread decree. 

The high-raised throws from spurting hose, 
Tending, bending, warping, winding, 
Seeking, chasing, meeting, blinding, 
Each blast that blows from fiery foes. 



80 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

O God, that wail ! That prayer, that fall ! 
Ruin, wreck and desolation, 
Ravage, waste and devastation, 
Spread Death's sad pall dark over all. 

That lurid glare ! That ghastly stare ! 
Bruised, maimed, and gashed, 
Soiled, stained, and broken, 
Of former looks scare left a token. 

Could those lips speak, how they could tell 
Of direful woe and fortune fell ! 
For mother's grief those eyes have shed ; 
For brother's pain that still heart bled, 

What now is light, or gloom, or earth, or air, 

To that wild stare ? 

Or friend or foe, or joy or woe, 

Or frown or smile, or trust or guile, 

To that dead glare ? 

Truth rests but in the tomb. 

Hugh F. McDermott. 



HEROES OF THE LAND OF PENN. 



[A good combination of vivid word-painting and dramatic passages.] 

BEAUTIFUL in her solitary grandeur — fair as a green island in a 
desert waste, proud as a lonely column, reared in the wilder- 
ness — rises the land of Penn, in the history of America. 
Here, beneath the Elm of Shackamaxon, was first reared the holy 
altar of Toleration. Here, from the halls of the old State House, 
was first proclaimed the Bible of the rights of man — the Declaration 
of Independence. 

Here, William Penn asserted the mild teachings of the Gospel, 
whose every word was Love. Here Franklin drew down lightnings 
from the sky, and bent the science of ages to the good of toiling- man. 
Here Jefferson stood forth, the consecrated Prophet of Freedom, 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 81 

proclaiming from Independence Hall the destiny of a Continent, the 
freedom of a people. 

She has no orator to celebrate her glories, to point to her past ; she 
has no Pierpont to hymn her illustrious dead : no Jared Sparks to 
chronicle her Revolutionary grandeur. 

And yet the green fields of Germantown, the twilight vale of the 
Brandywine, the blood-nurtured soil of Paoli, all have their memories 
of the past, all are stored with their sacred treasure of whitened bones. 
From the far North, old Wyoming sends forth her voice — from her 
hills of grandeur and her valleys of beauty, she sends her voice, and 
at the sound the mighty Dead of the land of Penn sweep by, a solemn 
pageant of the Past. 

Pennsylvanians, remember that though the Land of Penn has no 
history, yet is her story written on her battle-fields. 

Let us go to the battle of Germantown, in the dread hour of the 
retreat, and see how the children of Penn died. Let us go there, in 
the moment when Washington and his Generals came back from the 
fight. 

A pause in the din of battle ! The denizens of Mount Airy and 
Chestnut Hill come crowding to their doors and windows ; the hilly 
streets are occupied by anxious groups of people, who converse in low 
and whispered tones, with hurried gestures, and looks of surprise and 
fear. See yonder group clustered by the roadside : the gray-haired 
man, with his ear inclined intently toward Germantown, his hands 
outspread, and his trembling form bent with age ; the maiden, fair- 
cheeked, red-lipped, and blooming, clad in the peasant costume ; the 
matron, calm, self-possessed and placid ; the boy, with the light flaxen 
hair, the ruddy cheeks, the merry blue eyes ; — all standing silent and 
motionless, and listening, as with a common impulse, for the first news 
of the battle. 

There is a strange silence upon the air. A moment ago, and far off 

shouts broke upon the ear, mingling with the thunder of cannon, and 

the shrieks of the terrible musketry ; the earth seems to tremble, and 

far around, the wide horizon is agitated by a thousand echoes. Now 

(6) 



82 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

the scene is still as midnight. Not a sound, not a shout, not a distant 
hurrah. The anxiety of the group upon the hill becomes absorbing 
and painful. Looks of wonder, at the sudden pause of the battle, 
flit from face to face, and then low whispers are heard, and then comes 
another moment of fearful suspense. It is followed by a wild, rushing 
sound to the south, like the shrieks of the ocean waves, as they fill the 
hold of the foundering ship, while it sinks far into the loneliness of the 
seas. 

Then a pause, and again that unknown sound, and then the tramp 
of ten thousand footsteps mingled with a wild and indistinct murmur. 
Tramp, tramp, tramp, the air is filled with a sound, and then distinct 
voices break upon the air, and the clatter is borne upon the breeze. 

The boy turns to his mother, and asks her who has gained the day. 
Every heart feels vividly that the battle is now over, that the account 
of blood is near its close, that the appeal to the God of battles has 
been made. The mother turns her tearful eyes to the south ; she 
cannot answer the question. The old man, awakened from a reverie, 
turns suddenly to the maiden, and clasps her arm with his trembling 
hands. His lips move, but his tongue is unable to syllable a sound. 
He flings a trembling hand southward, and speaks his question with 
the gesture of age. The battle — the battle — how goes the battle? 
As he makes the gesture, the figure of a soldier is seen rushing from 
the mist in the valley below ; he comes speeding round the bend of 
the road, he ascends the hill, but his steps totter and he staggers to 
and fro like a drunken man. He bears a burden on his shoulders — 
is it the plunder of the fight ? Is it the spoil gathered from the ranks 
of the dead ? No ! — no ! He bears an aged man on his shoulders. 

Both are clad in the blue hunting shirt, torn and tattered and 
stained with blood, it is true, but still you can recognize the uniform 
of the Revolution. The tottering soldier nears the group, he lays the 
aged veteran down by the roadside, and then looks around with a 
ghastly face and a rolling eye. There is blood dripping from his attire, 
his face is begrimed with powder and spotted with crimson drops. He 
glances wildly around, and then, kneeling on the sod, he takes the 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 83 

hand' of the aged man in his own, and raises his head upon his knee. 

The battle — the battle — how goes the battle ? The group cluster 
around as they ask the question. The young Continental makes no 
reply, but, gazing upon the face of the dying veteran, wipes the beaded 
drops of blood from his forehead. 

" Comrade!" shrieks the veteran, "raise me on my feet, and wipe 
the blood from my eyes. I would see him once again." He is raised 
upon his feet, and the blood is wiped from his eyes. " I see — it is he 
— it is Washington ! Yonder — yonder I see his sword — and Anthony 
Wayne — raise me higher, comrade — all is getting dark — I would see 
— Mad Anthony ! Lift me, comrade — higher, higher — I see him — I 
see Mad Anthony ! Wipe the blood from my eyes, comrade, for it 
darkens my sight ; it is dark — it is dark ! " 

And the young soldier held in his arms a lifeless corpse. The old 
veteran was dead. He had fought his last fight, fired his last shot, 
shouted the name of Mad Anthony for the last time ; and yet his 
withered hand clenched, with the tightness of death, the broken bayonet. 

The battle — the battle — how goes the battle? As the thrilling 
question again rung in his ears, the young Continental turned to the 
group, smiled ghastly, and then flung his wounded arm to the south. 

"Lost !" he shrieked, and rushed on his way like one bereft of his 
senses. He had not gone ten steps, when he bit the dust of the road- 
side, and lay extended in the face of day, a lifeless corpse. 

So they died; the young hero and the aged veteran, children of the 
Land of Penn ! So died thousands of their brethren throughout the 
Continent — Quebec and Saratoga, Camden and Bunker Hill, to this 
hour, retain their bones ! 

Nameless and unhonored, the " Poor Men Heroes " of Pennsyl- 
vania sleep the last slumber on every battle-field of the Revolution. 
The incident which we have pictured is but a solitary page among ten 
thousand. In every spear of the grass that grows on our battle-fields, 
in every wild flower that blooms above the dead of the Revolution, 
you read the quiet heroism of the children of the Land of Penn. 

George Lippard. 



84 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

KATE SHELLY. 



H 



AVE you heard how a girl saved the lightning express, — 
Of Kate Shelly, whose father was killed on the road ? 

Were he living to-day, he'd be proud to possess 

Such a daughter as Kate. Ah ! 'twas grit that she showed 

On that terrible evening when Donahue's train 

Jumped the bridge and went down, in the darkness and rain. 

She was only eighteen, but a woman in size, 
With a figure as graceful and lithe as a doe ; 

With peach-blossom cheeks, and with violet eyes, 
And teeth and complexion like new-fallen snow ; 

With a nature unspoiled and unblemished by art — 

With a generous soul, and a warm, noble heart ! 

'Tis evening — the darkness is dense and profound ; 

Men linger at home by their bright-blazing fires ; 
The wind wildly howls with a horrible sound, 

And shrieks through the vibrating telegraph wires ; 
The fierce lightning flashes along the dark sky ; 
The rain falls in torrents ; the river rolls by. 

The scream of a whistle ! the rush of a train ! 

The sound of a bell! a mysterious light 
That flashes and flares through the fast falling rain ! 

A rumble! a roar ! shrieks of human affright! 
The falling of timbers ! the space of a breath! 
A splash in the river ! then darkness and death ! 

Kate Shelly recoils at the terrible crash ; 

The sounds of destruction she happens to hear ; 
She springs to the window — she throws up the sash, 

And listens and looks with a feeling of fear. 
The tall tree-tops groan, and she hears the faint cry 
Of a drowning man down in the river near by. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 85 

Her heart feebly flutters, her features grow wan, 
And then through her soul in a moment there flies 

A forethought that gives her the strength of a man — 
She turns to her trembling old mother and cries : 
"I must save the express — 'twill be here in an hour ! " 

Then out through the door disappears in the shower. 

She flies down the track through the pitiless rain ; 

She reaches the river — the water below 
Whirls and seethes through the timbers. She shudders again : 

"The bridge ! To Moingona God help me to go ! " 
Then closely about her she gathers her gown 
And on the wet ties with a shiver sinks down. 



Then carefully over the timbers she creeps 

On her hands and her knees, almost holding her breath. 
The loud thunder peals and the wind wildly sweeps, 

And struggles to hurry her downward to death ; 
But the thought of the train to destruction so near 
Removes from her soul every feeling of fear. 

With the blood dripping down from each torn, bleeding limb, 
Slowly over the timbers her dark way she feels ; 

Her fingers grow numb and her head seems to swim ; 
Her strength is fast failing — she staggers ! she reels ! 

She falls Ah ! the danger is over at last, 

Her feet touch the earth, and the long bridge is passed ! 

In an instant new life seems to come to her form ; 

She springs to her feet and forgets her despair. 
On, on to Moingona ! she faces the storm, 

She reaches the station — the keeper is there. 
" Save the lightning express ! No — hang out the red light ! 
There's death on the bridge at the river to-night ! " 



86 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Out flashes the signal-light, rosy and red ; 

Then sounds the loud roar of the swift coming train, 
The hissing of steam, and there, brightly ahead, 

The gleam of a headlight illumines the rain. 
" Down brakes ! " shrieks the whistle, defiant and shrill ; 
She heeds the red signal — she slackens, she's still ! 

Ah ! noble Kate Shelly, your mission is done ; 

Your deed that dark night will not fade from our gaze ; 
An endless renown you have worthily won : 

Let the nation be just, and accord you its praise. 
Let your name, let your fame, and your courage declare 
What a woman can do, and a woman can dare ! 

Eugene J. Hall. 



INDEPENDENCE BELL— JULY 4, 1776. 



"When the Declaration of Independence was adopted by Congress, the event 
was announced by ringing the old State House bell, which bore the inscription, 
"Proclaim liberty throughout the land, to all the inhabitants thereof! " The old 
bellman stationed his little grandson at the door of the hall, to await the instruc- 
tions of the door-keeper when to ring. At the word, the young patriot rushed 
out, and clapping his hands, shouted — Ring ! ring ! RING ! " 

[Read with spirit and animation.] 

THERE was a tumult in the city, 
In the quaint old Quaker town, 
And the streets were rife with people 
Pacing restless up and down — 
People gathering at the corners, 

Where they whispered each to each, 
And the sweat stood on their temples 
With the earnestness of speech. 

As the bleak Atlantic currents 

Lash the wild Newfoundland shore, 
So they beat against the State House, 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 87 

So they surged against the door; 
And the mingling of their voices 

Made the harmony profound, 
Till the quiet street of Chestnut 

Was all turbulent with sound. 

"Will they do it? " " Dare they do it? " 

"Who is speaking?" "What's the news?" 
" What of Adams ? " " What of Sherman ? " 

"Oh, God grant they won't refuse ! " 
"Make some way there ! " " Let me nearer ! " 

" I am stifling ! " " Stifle, then ! 
When a nation's life's at hazard, 

We've no time to think of men ! " 

So they surged against the State House, 

While all solemnly inside, 
Sat the " Continental Congress," 

Truth and reason for their guide. 
O'er a simple scroll debating, 

Which, though simple it might be, 
Yet should shake the cliffs of England 

With the thunders of the free. 

Far aloft in that high steeple 

Sat the bellman, old and gray, 
He was weary of the tyrant 

And his iron-sceptered sway; 
" So he sat, with one hand ready 

On the clapper of the bell, 
When his eye could catch the signal, 

The expected news to tell. 

See ! See ! The dense crowd quivers 
Through all its lengthy line, 



88 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

As the boy beside the portal 
Hastens forth to give the sign ! 

With his little hands uplifted, 
Breezes dallying with his hair, 

Hark ! with deep, clear intonation, 
Breaks his young voice on the air. 

Hushed the people's swelling murmur, 
Whilst the boy cries joyously : 
"Ring ! " he shouts, "Ring ! grandpapa, 
Ring ! oh, ring for Liberty ! " 
Quickly, at the given signal, 

The old bellman lifts his hand, 
•Forth he sends the good news, making 
Iron music through the land. 

How they shouted ! What rejoicing ! 

How the old bell shook the air, 
Till the clang of freedom ruffled 

The calmly gliding Delaware ! 
How the bonfires and the torches 

Lighted up the night's repose, 
And from the flames, like fabled Phcenix, 

Our glorious liberty arose ! 



That old State House bell is silent 



Hushed is now its clamorous tongue ; 
But the spirit it awakened 

Still is living — ever young : 
And when we greet the smiling sunlight 

On the Fourth of each July, 
We will ne'er forget the bellman 

Who, betwixt the earth and. sky, 
Rung out, loudly, " Independence ; " 

Which, please God, shall never die ! 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 89 



MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 



I LOOKED far back into other years, and lo ! in bright array, 
I saw as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away. 
It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls, 
And gardens with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep falls; 
And o'er the antique dial stone the creeping shadow passed, 
And all around the noonday sun a drowsy radiance cast. 
No sound of busy life was heard, save from the cloister dim, 
The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn. 
And there five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees, 
In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects please ; 
And little reck'ed they, when they sang, or knelt at the vesper prayers, 
That Scotland knew no prouder names — held none more dear than theirs; 
And little even the loveliest thought, before the holy shrine, 
Of royal blood and high descent from the ancient Stuart line ! 
Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight, 
And, as they flew, they left behind a long-continuing light. 

The scene was changed. It was the court, the gay court of Bourbon, 
And 'neath a thousand silver lamps a thousand courtiers throng ; 
And proudly kindles Henry's eye — well pleased, I ween, to see 
The land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry. 
But fairer far than all the rest who bask on fortune's tide, 
Effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new-made bride ! 
The homage of a thousand hearts — the fond, deep love of one — 
The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun — 
They lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her cheek, 
They sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled joy bespeak. 
Ah ! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its brilliant hours, 
She thought of that quiet convent's charm, its sunshine and its flowers? 

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way, 
And o'er its lee the coast of- France in the light of evening lay ; 






90 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes, 

Upon the fast receding hills, that dim and distant rise. 

No marvel that the lady wept — there was no land on earth 

She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her birth ; 

It was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of friends — 

It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends — 

The land where her dead husband slept — the land where she had 

known 
The tranquil convent's hushed repose, and the splendors of a throne : 
No marvel that the lady wept — it was the land of France — 
The chosen land of chivalry, the garden of romance ! 
The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her bark ; 
The future, like the gathering night, was ominous and dark ! 
..One gaze again — one long, last gaze — " Adieu, fair France, to thee ! " 
The breeze comes forth — she is alone on the unconscious sea ! 

The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly mood, 

And in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood 

Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with the winds, 

That seemed to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds. 

The touch of care had blanched her cheek — her smile was sadder 

now, 
The weight of royalty had pressed too heavy on her brow ; 
And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field ; 
The Stuart sceptre well she swayed, but the sword she could not 

wield. 
She thought of all her blighted hopes — the dreams of youth's brief 

day, 
And summoned Rizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel play 
The songs she loved in early years — the songs of gay Navarre, 
The songs, perchance, that erst were sung by gallant Chatelar; 
They half beguiled her of her cares, they soothed her into smiles, 
They won her thoughts from bigot's zeal, and fierce domestic broils ; 
But hark ! the tramp of armed men ! the Douglas' battle-cry ! 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 91 

They come, they come ! — and lo ! the scowl of Ruthven's hollow 

eye ! 
And swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, and tears and words are 

vain — 
The ruffian's steel is in his heart — the faithful Rizzio's slain ! 
Then Mary Stuart dashed aside the tears that trickling fell : 
"Now for my father's arm!" she said, " my woman's heart, farewell!" 

The scene was changed. It was a lake, with one small lonely isle, 
And there, within the prison walls of its baronial pile, 
Stern men stood menacing the Queen, till she should stoop to sign 
The traitorous scroll that snatched the crown from her ancestral line. 
"My lords, my lords !" the captive said, "were I but once more free, 
With ten good knights on yonder shore, to aid my cause and me, 
That parchment would I scatter wide to every breeze that blows, 
And once more reign a Stuart Queen o'er my remorseless foes !" 
A red spot burned upon her cheek — streamed her rich tresses down, 
She wrote the words — she stood erect — a queen without a crown. 

The scene was changed — Beside the block a sullen headsman stood, 
And gleamed the broad-axe in his hand, that soon must drip with 

blood, 
With slow and steady step there came a lady through the hall, 
And breathless silence chained the lips and touched the hearts of all. 
I knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom — 
I saw that grief had decked it out — an offering for the tomb ! 
I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly shone; 
I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrilled with every tone. 
I knew the ringlets, almost gray, once threads of living gold ! 
I knew that bounding grace of step — that symmetry of mould ! 

Even now I see her far away, in that calm convent aisle, 
I hear her chant her vesper-hymn, I mark her holy smile — 
Even now I see her bursting forth, upon the bridal morn, 



92 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

A new star in the firmament, to light and glory born ! 

Alas ! the change ! — she placed her foot upon a triple throne, 

And on the scaffold now she stands — beside the block — Alone ! 

The little dog that licks her hand — the last of all the crowd 

Who sunned themselves beneath her glance, and round her footsteps 

bowed ! 
— Her neck is bared — the blow is struck — the soul is passed away! 
The bright, the beautiful, is now a bleeding piece of clay ! 
The dog is moaning piteously ; and as it gurgles o'er, 
Laps the warm blood that trickling runs unheeded to the floor ! 
The blood of beauty, wealth, and power — the heart-blood of a Queen, 
The noblest of the Stuart race — the fairest earth has seen — 
Lapped by a dog ! Go think of it, in silence and alone ; 
Then weigh against a grain of sand the glories of a throne ! 

H. G. Bell. 



ONE NICHE THE HIGHEST. 



The author of this thrilling sketch was called "The Learned Blacksmith," 
on account of having learned to speak many languages although he worked daily 
at the forge. This reading is one of his most vivid descriptions. 

THE scene opens with a view of the great Natural Bridge in 
Virginia. There are three or four lads standing in the channel 
below, looking up with awe to that vast arch of unhewn rocks 
which the Almighty bridged over those everlasting butments, "when 
the morning stars sang together." The little piece of sky spanning 
these measureless piers is full of stars, although it is midday. It is 
almost five hundred feet from where they stand, up these perpendicular 
bulwarks of limestone to the key of that vast arch, which appears to 
them only of the size of a man's hand. 

The silence of death is rendered more impressive by the little stream 
that falls from rock to rock down the channel. The sun is darkened, 
and the boys have uncovered their heads as if standing in the presence- 
chamber of the Majesty of the whole earth. At last this feeling begins 
to wear away ; they look around them and find that others have been 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 93 

there before them. They see the names of hundreds cut in the lime- 
stone butments. A new feeling comes over their young hearts, and 
their knives are in their hands in an instant. " What man has done 
man can do," is their watchword, while they draw themselves up and 
carve their names a foot above those of a hundred full-grown men who 
have been there before them. 

They are all satisfied with this feat of physical exertion except one. 
This ambitious youth sees a name just above his reach — a name which 
will be green in the memory of the world when those of Alexander, 
Caesar and Bonaparte shall rot in oblivion. It was the name of 
Washington. Before he marched with Braddock to that fatal field he 
had been there and left his name a foot above any of his predecessors. 
It was a glorious thought to write his name side by side with that 
of the Father of his Country. He grasps his knife with a firmer hand, 
and, clinging to a little jutting crag, he cuts a niche into the limestone 
about a foot above where he stands ; he then reaches up and cuts 
another for his hands. 'Tis a dangerous adventure ; and, as he draws 
himself up carefully to his full length, he finds himself a foot above 
every name chronicled in that mighty wall. 

While his companions are regarding him with concern and admira- 
tion, he cuts his name in wide capitals, large and deep, into that flinty 
album. His knife is still in his hand, and strength in his sinews, and 
a new-created aspiration in his heart. Again he cuts another niche, 
and again he carves his name in larger capitals. This is not enough; 
heedless of the entreaties of his companions, he cuts and climbs again. 
He measures his length at every gain he cuts. The voices of his 
friends wax weaker and weaker, till their words are finally lost on his 
ear. 

He now for the first time casts a look beneath him. Had that 
glance lasted a moment more, that moment would have been his last. 
He clings with a convulsive shudder to his little niche in the rock. 
His knife is worn half-way to the haft. He can hear the voices of his 
terror-stricken companions below ! What a moment ! what a meagre 
chance to escape destruction ! There is no retracing his steps. It is 



94 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

impossible to put his hands into the same niche with his feet and retain 
his slender hold a moment. His companions instantly perceive this 
new and fearful dilemma. He is too high to ask for his father and 
mother, his brothers and sisters. But one of his companions anticipates 
his desire. Swift as the wind he bounds down the channel, and the 
situation of the fated boy is told upon the father's hearthstone. 

Minutes of almost eternal length roll on, and there are hundreds 
standing in that rocky channel 'and hundreds on the bridge above, all 
holding their breath, and awaiting the fearful catastrophe. The poor 
boy hears the hum of new and numerous voices, both above and below. 
He can just distinguish the tones of his father, who is shouting with 
all the energy of despair : " William ! William ! don't look down ! 
Your mother, and Henry and Harriet are all here praying for you ! 
Don't look down ! Keep your eye toward the top ! " 

The boy didn't look down. His eye is fixed like a flint towards 
heaven, and his young heart on Him who reigns there. He grasps 
again his knife. He cuts another niche, and another foot is added to 
the hundreds that remove him from the reach of human help from 
below. How carefully he uses his wasting blade ! How anxiously 
he selects the softest places in that vast pier ! How he avoids every 
flinty grain ! How he economizes his physical powers, resting 
a moment at each gain he cuts ! How every motion is watched from 
below ! There stand his father, mother, brother and sister on the very 
spot where, if he falls, he will not fall alone. 

The sun is half-way down in the west. The lad has made fifty 
additional niches in that mighty wall. Fifty more must be cut before 
the longest rope can reach him. His wasting blade strikes again into 
the limestone. The boy is emerging painfully, foot by foot, from 
under that lofty arch. Spliced ropes are ready in the hands of those 
who are leaning over the outer edge of the bridge above. Two 
minutes more and all must be over. The blade is worn to the last 
half-inch. The boy's head reels ; his eyes are starting from their 
sockets. His last hope is dying in his heart ; his life must hang on the 
next gain he cuts. That niche is his last. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 95 

At the last faint gash he makes, his knife — his faithful knife — falls 
from his little nerveless hand, and ringing along the precipice, falls at 
his mother's feet. An involuntary groan of despair runs like a death- 
knell through the channel below, and all is still as the grave. At 
the height of nearly three hundred feet the devoted boy lifts his hope- 
less heart, and closes his eyes to commend his soul to God. 

'Tis but a moment — there ! one foot swings off — he is reeling- — 
trembling — toppling over into eternity ! Hark ! a shout falls on his 
ear from above ! The man who is lying with half his length over the 
bridge has caught a glimpse of the boy's head and shoulders. Quick 
as thought the noosed rope is within reach of the sinking youth. 
With a faint, convulsive effort the swooning boy drops his arms into 
the noose. Darkness comes over him, and with the words " God — 
mother " whispered on his lips just loud enough to be heard in heaven, 
the tightening rope lifts him out of the last shallow niche. Not a lip 
moves while he is dangling over that fearful abyss ; but when a sturdy 
Virginian reaches down and draws up the lad and holds him up in his 
arms before the tearful, breathless multitude, such shouting — such 
leaping and weeping for joy — never greeted the ear of a human being 
so recovered from the yawning gulf of eternity. — Elihu Burritt. 



THE CHARCOAL MAN. 



[Call "Charco' ! " with a prolonged sound, and imitate the echoes.] 

THOUGH rudely blows the wintry blast, 
And sifting snows fall white and fast, 
Mark Haley drives along the street, 
Perched high upon his wagon seat ; 
His sombre face the storm defies, 
And thus from morn till eve he cries, — 

" Charco ' ! charco ' ! " 
While echo faint and far replies, — 
" Hark, O ! hark, O ! " 



96 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

" Charco ' ! " — " Hark, O ! " — such cheery sounds 
Attend him on his daily rounds. 

The dust begrimes his ancient hat ; 

His coat is darker far than that, 

'Tis odd to see his sooty form 

All speckled with the feathery storm ; 

Yet in his honest bosom lies 

Nor spot, nor speck, — though still he cries, — 

" Charco' ! charco ' ! " 
And many a roguish lad replies, — 
■ "Ark, ho ! ark, ho ! " 
"Charco ' ! " — "Ark, ho ! " — such various sounds 
Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds. 

Thus all the cold and wintry day 
He labors much for little pay ; 
Yet feels no less of happiness, 
Than many a richer man, I guess, 
When through the shades of eve he spies 
The light of his own home, and cries, — 

" Charco ' ! charco ' ! " 
And Martha from the door replies, — 

" Mark, ho ! Mark, ho ! " 
"Charco ' ! " — " Mark, ho ! " — Such joy abounds 
When lie has closed his daily rounds. 

The hearth is warm, the fire is bright, 

And while his hand, washed clean and white, 

Holds Martha's tender hand once more, 

His glowing face bends fondly o'er 

The crib wherein his darling lies, ' 

And in a coaxing tone he cries, 

"Charco'! charco'!" 
And baby with a laugh replies, — 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 97 

"Ah, go ! ah, go ! " 
"Charco'! " — "Ah, go! " — while at the sounds 
The mother's heart with gladness bounds. 

Then honored be the charcoal man ! 
Though dusky as an African, 
'Tis not for you that chance to be 
A little better clad than he, 
His honest manhood to despise, 
Although from morn till eve he cries, — 

" Charco ' ! charco ' ! " 
While mocking echo still replies, 

" Hark, O ! hark, O ! " 
"Charco ' ! " — " Hark, O ! " — Long may the sounds 
Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds ! 

J. T. Trowbridge. 

TO=DAY AND TO=MORROW. 



HIGH hopes that burn like stars sublime, 
Go down the heavens of freedom ; 
And true hearts perish in the time 
We bitterliest need 'em ! 
But never sit we down and say, 

" There's nothing left but sorrow : " 
We walk the Wilderness to-day — 
The Promised Land to-morrow. 

Our birds of song are silent now; 

There are no flowers blooming ! 
But life burns in the frozen bough, 

And Freedom's spring is coming ! 
And Freedom's tide comes up alway, 

Though we may strand in sorrow ; 
And our good bark, aground to-day, 

Shall float again to-morrow ! 



98 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Through all the long, drear night of years 

The people's cry ascendeth, 
And earth is wet with blood and tears, 

But our meek suffering endeth ! 
The few shall not forever sway, 

The many toil in sorrow : 
The powers of hell are strong to-day, 

But Christ shall rise to-morrow ! 

Though hearts brood o'er the past, our eyes 

With smiling futures glisten : 
For lo ! our day bursts up the skies — - 

Lean out our souls and listen ! 
The world rolls Freedom's radiant way, 

And ripens with her sorrow : 
Keep heart ! who bear the cross to-day 

Shall wear the crown to-morrow ! 

O, Youth, flame-earnest, still aspire 

With energies immortal ! 
To many a heaven of desire 

Our yearning opes a portal ! 
And though Age wearies by the way, 

And hearts break in the furrow, 
We'll sow the golden grain to-day — 

The harvest comes to-morrow. 

Build up heroic lives, and all 

Be like the sheathen sabre, 
Ready to flash out at God's call — 

O ! Chivalry of labor ! 
Triumph and Toil are twins — and aye 

Joy suns the cloud of sorrow ; 
And 'tis the martyrdom to-day 

Brings victory to-morrow ! 

Gerald Massey. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 99 



WASHINGTON. 



IT MATTERS very little what immediate spot may be the birth- 
place of such a man as Washington. No people can claim, no 
country can appropriate him ; the boon of Providence to the 
human race, his fame is eternity, and his residence creation. Though 
it was the defeat of our arms and the disgrace of our policy, I almost 
bless the convulsion in which he had his origin. If the heavens 
thundered and the earth rocked, yet, when the storm passed, how pure 
was the climate that it cleared ; how bright in the brow of the firma- 
ment was the planet which it revealed to us ! 

In the production of Washington it does really appear as if nature 
was endeavoring to improve upon herself, and that all the virtues of 
the ancient world were but so many studies preparatory to the patriot 
of the new. Individual instances no doubt there were — splendid 
exemplifications of some single qualification; Caesar was merciful, 
Scipio was continent, Hannibal was patient ; but it was reserved for 
Washington to blend them all in one, and, like the lovely masterpiece 
of the Grecian artist, to exhibit, in one glow of associated beauty, the 
pride of every model and the perfection of every master. 

As a general, he marshalled the peasant into a veteran, and supplied 
by discipline the absence of experience ; as a statesman, he enlarged 
the policy of the cabinet into the most comprehensive system of 
general advantage ; and such was the wisdom of his views and the 
philosophy of his counsels, that to the soldier and the statesman, he 
almost added the character of the sage ! A conqueror, he was 
untainted with the crime of blood ; a revolutionist, he was free from 
any stain of treason ; for aggression commenced the contest, and his 
country called him to the command. Liberty unsheathed his sword, 
necessity stained, victory returned it. 

If he had paused here, history might have doubted what station to 
assign him; whether at the head of her citizens or her soldiers — her 
heroes or her patriots. But the last glorious act crowns his career, 
and banishes all hesitation. Who, like Washington, after having 



100 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

emancipated a hemisphere, resigned its crown, and preferred the retire- 
ment of domestic life to the adoration of a land he might be almost 
said to have created ! 

" How shall we rank thee upon glory's page, 
Thou more than soldier and just less than sage ; 
All thou hast been reflects less fame on thee, 
Far less, than all thou hast foreborne to be ! " 

Happy, proud American ! the lightings of heaven yielded to your 
philosophy ! The temptations of earth could not seduce your 
patriotism ! — Charles Phillips. 



THE LOVE=KNOT. 



TYING her bonnet under her chin, 
She tied her raven ringlets in. 
But not alone in the silken snare 
Did she catch her lovely floating hair, 
For, tying her bonnet under her chin, 
She tied a young man's heart within. 

They were strolling together up the hill, 

Where the wind came blowing merry and chill ; 

And it blew the curls a frolicsome race, 

All over the happy peach-colored face. 

Till scolding and laughing, she tied them in, 

Under her beautiful, dimpled chin. 

And it blew a color, bright as the bloom 
Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing plume, 
All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl 
That ever imprisoned a romping curl, 
Or, in tying her bonnet under her chin, 
Tied a young man's heart within. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 101 

Steeper and steeper grew the hill, 
Madder, merrier, chiller still, 
The western wind blew down, and played 
The wildest tricks with the little maid, 
As, tying her bonnet under her chin, 
She tied a young man's heart within. 

O western wind, do you think it was* fair 

To play such tricks with her floating hair ? 

To gladly, gleefully, do your best 

To blow her against the young man's breast, 

Where he has gladly folded her in, 

And kissed her mouth and dimpled chin ? 

O Ellery Vane, you little thought, 
An hour ago, when you besought 
This country lass to walk with you, 
After the sun had dried the dew, 
What terrible danger you'd be in, 
As she tied her bonnet under her chin. 

Nora Perry. 



LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN. 



TTAH, I shpeaks English a leetle; berhaps you shpeaks petter 
1 der German." 

"No, not a word." " Vel den, meester, it hard for to be oon- 
derstandt. 
I vos drei yahr in your country ; I fights in der army mit Sherman — 
Twentiet Illinois Infantry — Fightin' Joe Hooker's commandt." 

" So you've seen service in Georgia — a veteran, eh ? " — " Veil, I tell you 

Shust how it vos. I vent ofer in sixty, und landt in Nei-York; 

I sphends all mine money, gets sick, und near dies in der Hospiddal 

Bellevue ; 
Ven I gets petter I tramps to Sheecago to look for some vork." 



102 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

"Pretty young then, I suppose?" — " Yah, swans ig apout; und der 

peebles 
Vot I goes to for to ask for some vork, dey hafe none for to geef ; 
Efery von laughs ; but I holds my head ope shust so high as der 

steeples ; 
Only dot var comes along, or I should have die, I belief." 

" Ever get wounded ? I notice you walk rather lame and unsteady. 
Pshaw! got a wooden leg, eh? What battle?" "At Lookout!" 

" Don't say ! 
I was there too — wait a minute — why your glass is empty already. 
Have another. There ! tell me how 'twas you got wounded that day." 

"Veil, ve charge ope der side of der mountain — der sky vos all smoky 

and hazy ; 
Ve fight all day long in der clouds, but I nefer get hit until night — 
But — I don't care to say mooch apout it. Der boys call me foolish 

and crazy, 
Und der doctor that cut ofe my leg, he say, ' Goot ' — dot it serf me 

shust ri^ht. 



•&.■ 



" But I dinks I vood do dot thing over again, shust der same, and no 

matter 
Vot any man say." " Well, let's hear it — you needn't mind talking 

to me, 
For I was there, too, as I tell you — and oh ! how the bullets did patter 
Around on that breastwork of boulders that sheltered our Tenth 

Tennessee." 

"So ? Dot vos a Tennessee regiment charged upon ours in de efening, 
Shust before dark ; und dey yell as dey charge, und ve geef a hurrah; 
Der roar of der guns, it vos orful." "Ah ! yes, I remember, 'twas 

deafening, 
The hottest musketry firing that ever our regiment saw." 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 103 

" Und after ve drove dem back, und der night come on, I listen, 
Und dinks dot I hear somepody a callin' — a voice dot cried, 
' Pring me some vater, for Gott's sake ' — I saw his peltblate glisten 
Oonder der moonlight, on der parapet, shust outside. 

" I dhrow my canteen ofer to vere he lie, but he answer 
Dot his left handt vos gone, und his right arm proke mit a fall ; 
Den I shump ofer, und gife him to drink, but shust as I ran, sir, 
Bang ! come a sharp-shooter's pullet ; und dot's how it vos — dotis all." 

"And they called you foolish and crazy, did they ? Him you befriended — 
The ' Reb,' I mean — what became of him ? Did he ever come 'round? " 
" Dey tell me he crawl to my side, und call till his strength vos all 

ended, 
Until dey come out mit der stretchers, und carry us off from der ground. 

" But pefore ve go, he ask me my name, und says he, ' Yacob Keller, 
You loses your leg for me, und some day, if both of us leefs, 
I shows you I don't vorget ' — but he most hafe died, de poor feller ; 
I never hear ofe him since. He don't get veil, I beliefs. 

" Only I alvays got der saddisfacshun ofe knowin ' — 

Shtop ! vots der matter ? Here, take some vater, you're vite as a 

sheet — 
Shteady your handt on my shoulder ! my gootness ! I dinks you vos 

goin' 
To lose your senses avay, und fall right off mit der seat. 

" Geef me your handts. Vot ! der left one gone ? Und you vos a 

soldier 
In dot same battle ! — a Tennessee regiment ? — dot's mighty queer — 
Berhaps after all you're — " " Yes, Yacob, God bless you old fellow, 

I told you 
I'd never — no, never forget you. I told you I'd come, and I'm here." 

George L. Catlin. 



104 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 



I 



THE BURNING OF CHICAGO. 

[With movement moderately rapid.] 

FOUND a Rome of common clay," imperial Caesar cried; 



"I left a Rome of marble ! " No other Rome beside ! 

The ages wrote their autographs along the sculptured stone — • 
The golden eagles flew aboad — Augustan splendors shone — 
They made a Roman of the world ! They trailed the classic robe, 
And flung the Latin toga around the naked globe ! 

" I found Chicago wood and clay," a mightier Kaiser said, 

Then flung upon the sleeping mart his royal robes of red, 

And temple, dome, and colonnade, and monument and spire 

Put on the crimson livery of dreadful Kaiser Fire ! 

The stately piles of polished stone were shattered into sand, 

And madly drove the dread simoon, and snowed them on the land; 

And rained them till the sea was red, and scorched the wings of prayer! 

Like thistle-down ten thousand homes went drifting through the air, 

And dumb Dismay walked hand-in-hand with frozen-eyed Despair ! 

Chicago vanished in a cloud — the towers were storms of sleet, 

Lo ! ruins of a thousand years along the spectral street ! 

The night burned out between the days ! The ashen hoar-frost fell, 

As if some demon set ajar the bolted gates of hell, 

And let the molton billows break the adamantine bars, 

And roll the smoke of torment up to smother out the stars ! 

The low, dull growl of powder-blasts just dotted off the din, 

As if they tolled for perished clocks the time that might have been ! 

The thunder of the fiery surf roared human accents dumb; 
The trumpet's clangor died away, a wild bee's drowsy hum, 
And breakers beat the empty world that rumbled like a drum. 
O cities of the Silent Land ! O Graceland and Rosehill ! 
No tombs without their tenantry ? The pale host sleeping still ? 
Your marble thresholds dawning red with holocaustal glare, 
As if the Waking Angel's foot were set upon the stair ! 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 105 

But ah, the human multitudes that marched before the flame — 
As 'mid the Red Sea's wavy walls the ancient people came ! 
Behind, the rattling chariots ! the Pharaoh of Fire ! 
The rallying volley of the whips, the jarring of the tire ! — 
Looked round, and saw the homeless world as dismal as a pyre — 
Looked up, and saw God's blessed Blue a firmament so dire! 

As in the days of burning Troy, when Virgil's hero fled, 
So gray and trembling pilgrims found some younger feet instead, 
That bore them through the wilderness with bold elastic stride, 
And Ruth and Rachel, pale and brave, in silence walked beside; 
Those Bible girls of Judah's day did make that day sublime — 
Leave life but them, no other loss can ever bankrupt Time ! 

Men stood and saw their all caught up in chariots of flame — 
No mantle falling from the sky they ever thought to claim, 
And empty-handed as the dead, they turned away and smiled, 
And bore a stranger's household gods and saved a stranger's child! 
What valor brightened into shape, like statues in a hall, 
When on their dusky panoply the blazing torches fall, 
Stood bravely out, and saw the world spread wings of fiery flight, 
And not a trinket of a star to crown disastered night ! 

Benjamin F. Taylor. 

BILL THE ENGINEER. 

[Imitate as nearly as possible the puffing sounds of a locomotive when it starts] 

, TT LL ' board ! " " Spheee-ee-chee — sphee-ee-choof " — 

j V And the iron horse moves his steel-rimmed hoof, 
And snorts from his chest his breath of steam, 
With a quickening pulse and warning scream ; 
Moves out with his freight of human lives — 
A sinuous chain of humming hives. 

Anon the hum is a rattling din, 

As the bright steel arms fly out and in, 



106 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Till naught is heard save a deafening jar, 
As the train speeds on like a shooting star, 
With a lengthening trail like a smoky pall 
Whose writhing folds envelop all. 

"Stoke up !" shouts Bill, the engineer ; 

" We must rush this grade and the bottom clear 
With a monstrous bulge, to pull up hill 
T'other side— heavy train." "All right, Bill ! " 
And the coal went in and the throttle out. 

"Watch yo' side the curve ! " from Bill with a shout. 

Adown the grade with open throttle 
They swiftly glide as a flying shuttle — 
Weaving in streaks of green and gray, 
The warp and woof of bush and clay, 
While steam and smoke and dust behind 
Form mottled clouds in the tortured wind. 

Through the cut and into the vale — 

Across the. trestle that spans the swale; 

There the willows swirl, and the rank weeds sway, 

And the heron starts with a shriek away — 

Blown from her course — a shrill refrain, 

'Mid the whirling gusts of the flying train. 

Beyond the curve this side the hill, 

There runs a creek — by the old saw-mill — 

A covered bridge and a water tank, 

With the watchman's shanty on this bank : 

A quiet nook, for the mill is done, — 

With crippled Jemmie it ceased to run. 

Just round the curve in the shady wood 
That fringes the creek, his low hut stood 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 107 

Where Jemmie, the watch, spent his useful life 
With a lovely child and a loving wife. 
Naught now came their peace to mar 
Worse than a swift train's rumbling jar. 

To fame unknown, but to roadman dear, 
For Jemmie had watched from year to year — 
And more than once did his vigil save 
A train and its lives from a watery grave, 
Since broken in purse and form at the mill 
He worked on crutches — a good watch still ! 

" Hark ! 'Tis the train ! " The mother's ear 

Leans to the sound ; then a mortal fear 

Freezes her veins — she sees not her child ! 
"Oh, darling! Oh, Maggie!" in accents wild. 

She starts from the hut — now feeling the way, 
"Keep Maggie in when the trains go fry." 

She strains her eyes out toward the creek, 
Where up the track, with an ashen cheek, 
Hobbled the watch — one pointed crutch 
Where Maggie lay in the engine's clutch — 
The wilting flowers across her breast ; 
She'd wearied to sleep in their eager quest. 

"Save her, Mary! For God's sake run ! " 
Came Jemmie's voice like a signal gun ; 
The mother sprang like a startled deer, 
But the rushing train was now too near — 
She saw, and swooned with a piercing shriek 
That echoed afar o'er the winding creek ; 

Ay, pierced the boom round the curve so near, 
And smote on the ear of the engineer ; 



108 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

" Great God ! Down brakes ! Quick ! Reverse ! " 
And Bill was out on the iron horse, 
Treading his thrills o'er the roaring fires 
With his nerves strung tense as electric wires. 

Alas ! the engine's speed is too great; 

The baby dreams in the path of fate ! 

Yet Bill knows the force and just the brace 

To lift a pound in such a case ; 

With a rushing train and the child asleep, 

'Tis a giant's power his place must keep. 

Still reaching forth with an iron grasp, 
He does with his might this God-like task ; 
Bears the startled child on high — 
So happy to hear its frightened cry — 
Then crushing it to his manly breast, 
Kisses its cheeks with a lover's zest. 

"More brakes!" calls Bill, for the mother's seen, 
And the crutches and form of Jemmie between 
His wife and the train — that's crushed the life 
From his child he thinks — "I'll die with my wife!" 
But the train now slackens and stops apace — 
Hard by a pallid upturned face. 

"Saved!" cries Bill, from the engine's front; 

"Saved!" echoes Jemmie, his crutches shunt; 

"Saved?" shouted the passengers, "Saved from death ! 

"Saved?" queries Mary, with conscious breath. 
Then helped to her feet— " God bless you sir!" 
And Bill's grimy hand wipes back a tear. 

"All 'board!" "Sphee-ee chee — sphee-ee-choof ! " 
And the iron horse moves his steel-rimmed hoof; 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 109 

And the train resumes its journey far. 
Heroes have been, and heroes are — 
Of battle and State, of travel and skill, 
Of letters and art — but give us "Bill." 

At the end of the road they gave him a purse. 
"I don't want that ! " and he muttered a curse ; 
But finally took it, and stowed it away, 
And then threw it to "Mag" as he passed next day. 
It whirled through the air and struck by the stoop, 
Where the three stood to greet him, a joyful group. 

Bettersworth. 

THE ACTOR'S STORY. 

MINE is a wild, strange story,- — the strangest you ever heard; 
There are many who won't believe it, but it's gospel every 
word ; 
It's the biggest drama of any in a long, adventurous life; 
The scene was a ship, and the actors — were myself and my new-wed 
wife. 

• 

You mustn't mind if I ramble, and lose the thread now and then ; 
I'm old, you know, and I wander — it's a way with old women and 

men, 
For their lives lie all behind them, and their thoughts go far away, 
And are tempted afield, like children lost on a summer day. 

The years must be five-and-twenty that have passed since that awful 

night, 
But I see it again this evening, I can never shut out the sight. 
We were only a few weeks married, I and the wife, you know, 
When we had an offer for Melbourne, and made up our minds to go. 

We'd acted together in England, travelling up and down 
With a strolling band of players, going from town to town ; 



/ 

110 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

We played the lovers together — we were leading lady and gent — 
And at last we played in earnest, and straight to the church we went. 

The parson gave us his blessing, and I gave Nellie the ring, 

And swore that I'd love and cherish, and endow her with everything. 

How we smiled at that part of the service when I said " I thee 

endow !" 
But as to the " love and cherish," friends, I meant to keep that vow. 

We were only a couple of strollers; we had coin when the show was 

good, 
When it wasn't we went without it, and we did the best we could. 
We were happy and loved each other, and laughed at the shifts we 

made, — 
Where love makes plenty of sunshine, there poverty casts no shade. 

Well, at last we got to London, and did pretty well for a bit ; 
Then the business dropped to nothing, and the manager took a fit, — 
Stepped off one Sunday morning, forgetting the treasury call ; 
But our luck was in, and we managed right on our feet to fall. 

We got an offer for Melbourne, — got it that very week. 
Those were the days when thousands went over their fortunes to seek — 
The days of the great gold fever, and a manager thought the spot 
Good for a " spec," and took us actors among his lot. 

We hadn't a friend in England — we'd only ourselves to please — 
And we jumped at the chance of trying our fortune across the seas. 
We went on a sailing vessel, and the journey was long and rough ; 
We hadn't been out a fortnight before we had had enough. 

But use is a second nature, and we'd got not to mind a storm, 
When misery came upon us, — came in a hideous form, 
My poor little wife fell ailing, grew worse, and at last so bad 
That the doctor said she was dying, — I thought 'twould have sent me 
•* mad — 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. Ill 

Dying where leagues of billows seemed to shriek for their prey, 
And the nearest land was hundreds — ay, thousands — of miles away. 
She raved one night in a fever, and the next lay still as death, 
So still I'd bend to listen for the faintest sign of breath. 

She seemed in a sleep, and sleeping with a smile on her thin, wan 

face, 
She passed away one morning, while I prayed to the throne of grace. 
I knelt in the little cabin, and prayer after prayer I said, 
Till the surgeon came and told me it was useless — my wife was dead ! 

Dead ! I wouldn't believe it. They forced me away that night, 
For I raved in my wild despairing, the shock sent me mad outright. 
I was shut in the farthest cabin, and I beat my head on the side, 
And all day long in my madness, " They've murdered her!" I cried. 

They locked me away from my fellows, — put me in cruel chains, 
It seems I had seized a weapon to beat out the surgeon's brains. 
I cried in my wild, mad fury that he was the devil sent 
To gloat o'er the frenized anguish with which my heart was rent. 

I spent that night with the irons heavy upon my wrists. 

And my wife lay dead quite near me. I beat with my fettered fists, 

Beat at my prison panels, and then — O God ! — and then 

I heard the shrieks of women and the tramp of hurrying men. 

I heard the cry, " Ship a-fire !" caught up by a hundred throats, 
And over the roar the captain shouting to lower the boats ; 
Then cry upon cry, and curses, and the crackle of burning wood, 
And the place grew hot as a furnace — I could feel it where I stood. 

I beat at the door and shouted, but never a sound came back, 
And the timbers above me started, till right through a yawning crack 
I could see the flames shoot upwards, seizing on mast and sail, 
Fanned in their burning fury by the breath of the howling gale. 



112 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

I dashed at the door in fury, shrieking, " I will not die ! 
Die in this burning prison !" — but I caught no answering cry. 
Then, suddenly, right upon me the flames crept up with a roar, 
And their fiery tongues shot forward, cracking my prison door. 

I was free — with the heavy iron door dragging me down to death ; 
I fought my way to the cabin, choked with the burning breath 
Of the flames that danced around me like mad, mocking fiends at play, 
And then — O God ! I can see it, and shall to my dying day. 

There lay my Nell as they'd left her dead in her berth that night ; 
The flames flung a smile on her features, — a horrible, lurid light, 
God knows how I reached and touched her, but I found myself by 

her side; 
I thought she was living a moment, I forgot that my Nell had died. 

In the shock of those awful seconds reason came back to my brain. 
I heard a sound as of breathing, and then a low cry of pain ; 
Oh, was there mercy in heaven ? Was there a God in the skies ? 
The dead woman's lips were moving, the dead woman opened her eyes. 

I cursed like a madman raving — I cried to her, " Nell ! my Nell !" 
They had left us alone and helpless, alone in that burning hell ; 
They had left us alone to perish — forgotten me living — and she 
Had been left for the fire to bear her to heaven, instead of the sea. 

I clutched her, roused her shrieking, the stupor was on her still ; 

I seized her in spite of my fetters, — fear gave me a giant's will. 

God knows how I did it, but blindly I fought through the flames and 

the wreck 
Up — up to the air, and brought her safe to the untouched deck. 

We'd a moment of life together, — a moment of life, the time 
For one last word to each other, — 'twas a moment supreme, sublime, 
From the trance we'd for death mistaken the heat had brought her to life, 
And I was fettered and helpless, so we lay there, husband and wife ! 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 113 

It was but a moment, but ages seemed to have passed away, 
When a shout came over the water, and I looked, and lo, there lay, 
Right away from the vessel, a boat that was standing by ; 
They had seen our forms on the vessel, as the flames lit up the sky. 

I shouted a prayer to Heaven, then called to my wife, and she 
Tore with new strength at my fetters — God helped her, and I was free ; 
Then over the burning bulwarks we leaped for one chance of life. 
Did they save us ? Well, here I am, sir, and yonder 's my dear old wife. 

We were out in the boat till daylight, when a great ship passing by 
Took us on board, and at Melbourne landed us by and by. 
We've played many parts in dramas since we went on that famous trip, 
But ne'er such a scene together as we had on the burning ship! 

George R. Sims. 



ZARAFI. 

THE sultry day has closed at night on Syria's glowing plains, 
The stars are gleaming pure and bright, the moon in beauty reigns. 
Far o'er the waste of drifting sand the fiery coursers speed, 
Free as the air the Arab bands, the men of daring deed. 
The white tents glimmer in the light by Acre's storied fane, 
Where erst streamed out the banners bright on Syria's hoary plain — 
And where the cross was held on high by Europe's knights of old, 
Their lances pointing to the sky, their arms of burnished gold. 

Beside the tent at midnight hour is heard a stifled moan, 
A murmuring to Allah's power, to Allah's dazzling throne; 
And suffering, weak, and wounded sore, the fainting captive lay. 
His mem'ries with the battles were, his dread the coming day, 
And home and wife and children dear came thronging through his brain. 
Unmanned at last, the silent tear wets his dark cheek like rain — 
But hark ! he hears a gentle sound, it floats along the plain, 
It makes his fainting pulses bound, it stills his maddening pain, 
8 



114 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Zarafi calls — a friend in need — his master knows full well ; 

Oh, could he mount that gallant steed — then Acre's tents farewell ! 

His captor's eyes are closed in sleep, he groans with racking pain — 

The cruel cords are cutting still in quivering muscles bare; 

But naught can curb his iron will — no wailing of despair. 

One purpose firm the Arab chief now nerves his utmost power — 

Then welcome all the pangs of death and slav'ry's darkest hour. 

"Poor friend," he said, in accents low, as at his feet he lay — 

Zarafi bends his crest of snow and licks his tears away — 

" Go forth across the burning sands where Jordan's infant stream 

Descends to Zion's holy lands, the prophets' ancient dream — 

To Zeenab's tent — oh, speed thee well — my courser swift and strong, 

Where fair Arabia's mountains swell the land of love and song. 

Oh, put thy head within the door — oh, speak with loving eyes ! 

Tell her El Marc returns no more, in slavery's bonds he dies. 

But thou art free! no Turk shall ride my proud Zarafi's form, 

Free as the air, my Arab pride, swift as the rushing storm. 

Go forth ! go forth ! with stately grace across the burning sands, 

And look once more in Zeenab's face and lick my children's hands." 

His bleeding mouth untied the knot that held the good steed there, 

His blending tears bedewed the spot upon the glossy hair : 

Thy turn, Zarafi ! bend thy crest, and lift thy master now, 

Thy limbs must know no laggard rest, thy breath is on his brow. 

He lifts him to his back. As breaks the opening day — 

Swift as an arrow from the bow Zarafi speeds away. 

Beneath the sun, oh, storied land, with energies unspent, 

The good steed spurns the burning sand, his goal is Zeenab's tent. 

Each bubbling spring that marks the way Zarafi knows full well ; 

Each tree that screens from burning ray, he knows each shaded dell, 

Nor stays he by the grassy run, nor in the shade's cool breath, 

Though strained is now each aching limb, though every stride is death. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 115 

His master faints unconscious now, nor thought of child or wife 
Throbs through his pale and haggard brow as ebbs his fleeting life. 
The night's cold dews are falling o'er Zafafi's drooping crest, 
And Zeenab mourns her Arab mate, her face to Mecca's shrine, 
She prays to him who guides her fate, to Allah all divine. 
Her little ones are gathering round — as to her form they cling 
They hear the distant beating sound; is it an angel's wing? 
They hear a faintly uttered neigh, it is his latest breath. 
At Zeenab 's door his master lay — the horse lay still in death, 
The death sweat lay upon his skin erst smooth and glossy fair, 
His faithful heart was still within, and wet his matted hair. 

El Marc yet lived, and loving hands brought back his fleeting life, 

He led again the Arab bands in war's remorseless strife. 

In tents of wandering Ishmael, as in the days of old, 

Is heard the proud rehearsal now — Zarafi's deeds are told, 

And sweetly flows the story, and glows each swarthy face, 

And ever bright the glory of Zarafi's dying race. 

Lamartine. 



MY HERO. 

[The figures in this selection indicate some of the gestures to be made, and refer to 
corresponding figures in Part I.] 

WHY did I bow, you ask? And why 
Did I raise my hat with such respect 
To an old man passing slowly by ? 
Ah, none from his look would e'er suspect, 11 
But rest awhile by this gnarled old tree, 
And list to the tale as told to me. 7 

There were two of them once, when their days were young. 

She was as fair as a maid need be, 
With a merry laugh and a merrier tongue, 
And a dimpled cheek, and hair that clung 



116 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

In clusters of ringlets gay to see, 

And the way of a witch. But our hero ? He 

Was tongue-tied when in her presence fair ; 
Dumb 10 when he strove the girl to beguile 
With the eloquent wile of a lover's smile, 

And a heart that ached with a dull despair. 

'Tis the old, old tale ; another came 

With a readier smile and a lighter speech 
And sat himself down this maid to teach 

The primer that comes before change of name. 
But she with her witchery taught in turn 
That players with flame may fingers burn. 

So they were married one sunny day ; 
And the other knew, as he plied his oar, 

What the gay bell pealing across the bay 

Strove to tell in its mocking way 

Of hope perfected and hope no more. 4 

But the years rolled on, and again the bell 

Pealed across the sunlit sea 
With note of sadness now, 19 the knell 

That told where widow's weeds would be. 
The girlish face was faded now. 

For years, where curls had been, plain braids 
Swept back from the wrinkled careworn brow, 

And the witchery fled 23 that had been the maid's. 
But blind to that was our lover true, 
And he came again her love to sue. 

Twice have the bells since crossed the sea, 
Once for a wedding, once for the dead, 

And another grave 'neath the apple-tree 
Lies in the glow of sunset red. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 117 

Still in his dory the old man plies 2 

His oar on the way to his fishing-net, 
And the lingering light from the oar-blade flies 
As the bent old shoulders fall and rise, 

And the ash stave bends in the sturdy fist 

Till his form is dark in the harbor mist. 24 
Scant are his daily earns ; and yet 

A wreath of flowers is laid each day 7 
On the grave of the woman he loved so well ; 
And another wreath, from the selfsame dell, 
On the other grave can be daily seen — 
The grave of the lover who came between, 
Of the man beloved by the silent dead, 
Who lies by her side in the sunset red ! 

John Preston True. 

THE DESTRUCTION OF TROY. 

THE leaders of the Greeks, worn with war and baffled by fate, 
built, with the aid of the divine skill of Pallas, a horse as huge 
as a mountain, and formed the sides of interlacing flanks of fir. 
In it they secretly enclose the picked warriors they have chosen, and 
fill full the vast caverns with armed soldiers. 

In sight lies Tenedos, an island well known to fame, rich and 
powerful ; hither they proceed and conceal themselves on the desolate 
shore. We supposed they had all gone away; therefore all the land 
of Troy freed itself from its long sorrow, The gates were opened. 
With joy we issue forth and view the Doric camp, and the deserted 
stations, and the forsaken coast. Some view with amazement the 
unusual offering to the maiden Minerva, and wonder at the stupendous 
bulk of the horse. Thymcetes is the first to urge that it be dragged 
within the walls and placed in the citadel. But Capys and others, 
whose minds had wiser sentiments, advise either to throw the thing 
into the sea, to put fire under it and burn it, or to pierce it and explore 
the inner recesses of the body. 



118 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

The fickle multitude is split into opposite factions. Then it is that 
foremost, before all the rest, followed by a great crowd, Laocoon 
eagerly runs down from the heights of the citadel, and cries from afar: 

"My hapless citizens, how has such wild frenzy seized you? Do 
you believe that the enemy have sailed away ? Or do you think that 
any Grecian gifts are free from fraud? Is such your knowledge 
o' Ulysses? Either the Achseans are concealed in this frame; or it is 
an engine wrought against our walls, intended to spy into our houses 
and come down upon our city from above; or there is some hidden 
deceit Trust not the horse, yt Trojans ! Whatever it is, I fear the 
Greeks, even when they bring gifts.'' 

Lo, some Dardan shepherds meanwhile came, dragging to the king 
with loud shouts, a youth whose hands were bound behind his back; 
who, though they knew him not, had put himself in their way as they 
approached him, in order to work out his craft, and open Troy to 
the Greeks, or submit to certain death. At length he made this 
speech : 

" 1 certainly will declare to you, O King, the whole truth, whatever 
be the consequence I will not deny I am by birth a Greek, and if 
fortune, the wicked goddess has fashioned Sinon to misery, she shall 
not fashion him to falsehood and deceit. After the death of my father 
through the malice of Ulysses, I dragged on my days in obscurity and 
sadness, and vowed that if ever I returned a conqueror to Argos, 
I would be his avenger, From this time began my downfall. The 
Greeks often wished to leave Troy, but the inclement fury of the sea 
kept them on land, and the wild winds alarmed them in the act of 
starting. In our bewilderment, we sent to inquire of the oracle, 
Phoebus, and this terrible response was brought back : 'By blood, you 
must seek the power to return, and the sacrifice demands an Argive 
life. At last, forced by the loud outcries of Ithacus, he broke silence 
and doomed me to the altar. The dreadful day had come, I snatched 
myself from death and broke my bonds, and now I have no hope of 
seeing again my fatherland, nor the children I love, and the parent 
I long to see, at whose hands, perhaps, they will even require satisfac- 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 119 

tion for my escape. Wherefore, by the gods above, pity a soul that 
suffers what it does not deserve." 

We granted him his life and pitied his tears. " Whoever you are, 
from this time forward forget the Greeks ; you shall be ours. Since 
this is so, explain to what end have they set up this horse of enormous 
bulk?" 

By means of the deceptions of the perjured Sinon, with one voice, 
the people cry : "The image must be drawn to its temple and the 
goddess entreated." And threatening it glides into the heart of the 
city. 

Meanwhile, the sphere of heaven moves round, and night rushes 
up from the ocean, wrapping in her universal shade both earth and sky, 
and the craft of the myrmidons. The Trojans are stretched in silent 
rest throughout the town ; sleep clasps their weary limbs. And now, 
the Argive host was advancing in naval array from Tenedos, making 
for the well-known shores amid the friendly silence of the moon, when 
the royal ship suddenly shot forth the signal-flame, and Sinon, 
protected by the partial gloom unbolts the bars of pine, and sets free the 
Greeks imprisoned in the body of the horse. They assault the city 
buried in sleep and wine ; the guards are slain, and, throwing open the 
gates, they admit all their comrades. 

The town is nlled with tumultuous woe ; and, although the mansion 
of my father, Anchises, is retired from view by its secluded situation 
and its shadowing trees, still louder and louder grow the sounds, and 
the terror of battle comes close upon us. Startled from sleep, I mount 
to the highest point of the sloping roof, and take my stand, with keenly 
listening ears. Then, indeed, the truth is evident, and the stratagem 
of the Greeks revealed. Already the mansion of Deiphobus has fallen 
into ruins, as the god of fire prevails ; the house of my neighbor, 
Ucalegon, is burning; far and wide the Sigean channel gleams with 
the blaze. There arises the cry of men and the clang of trumpets. 
Distractedly I take my arms, and yearn to muster a troop for battle, 
and to hasten to the citadel ; frenzy and rage give me reckless resolu- 
tion, and I think it were glorious to fall fighting. 



120 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

But lo, Pantheus, escaped from the weapons of the Greeks, with his 
own hands drags along the sacred vessels, his vanquished gods, and 
his little grandson, and comes running to my door. " How stands the 
fortune of the State, Pantheus ? What stronghold are we to seize ? " 

Scarce had I spoken the words, when, with a groan, he answers : 
"Troy has reached her final day and her inevitable hour. The 
Trojans are no more. Ilium is no more. Relentless Jove has trans- 
ferred all power to Argos ; the Greeks lord it in the city they have 
fired. The horse, erect in the heart of the town, pours forth from its 
height armed men, and Sinon, now a conqueror, insolently flings the 
flames abroad. Some are crowding in at the double gates, all the 
thousands that ever came from proud Mycenae ; others with their 
weapons have barred the narrower streets ; the sharp sword with 
glittering blade is drawn and fixed, prepared to kill. The guards 
at the gates hardly attempt a contest ! " 

By' such words and by the will of Heaven, I am carried into the 
flames and the fight, whither the fell fury of battle calls me. Comrades 
join me. When I saw that they formed a band, and were bold 
for battle, to incite them further : "Warriors," I began, "hearts most 
valiant, you see what is the state of our fortunes ; the gods by whom 
this realm stood fast, have all departed, and left the sanctuaries and 
shrines. Haste ye, to succor a city that is set on fire! Let us rush 
into the thickest of the fight and, if need be, die ! " 

Thereupon, like ravening wolves, we make our way through 
weapons, through foes, and press on to the centre of the city. Who 
in words could describe the carnage of that night ? An ancient city 
is falling ! Helpless forms in vast numbers are stretched on all sides, 
throughout the streets, the houses, and the hallowed thresholds of the 
gods. Nor from the Trojans only is exacted the penalty of blood. 
Sometimes to the hearts of the vanquished also valor returns, and the 
victorious Greeks fall. Everywhere is cruel woe; everywhere is panic 
and death in many a shape. 

When the night is spent. I find with astonishment that a vast number 
have flocked to join me, both matrons and husbands; a band of men 




SARA BERNHARDT. 



OH, WELCOME, PURE-EYED FAITH, WHITE-HANDED HOPE, 
THOU HOVERING ANGEL, GIRT WITH GOLDEN WINGS! 




E. H. SOTHERN. 

'FINE WORDS! I WONDER WHERE YOU STOLE 'EM. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 121 

assembled for exile, a piteous throng. They have resolved to settle 
in whatever lands I please to lead them to, over the sea. And now the 
morning-star was beginning to rise over the topmost ridges of Ida, 
bringing in the day ; and, taking up my father we journeyed toward 
the mountains. — Publius Virgilius Maro Virgil. 



THE TRIUMPH OF HECTOR. 

[The figures refer to the corresponding numbers in Part I.] 

SO equal, then, the war and battle hung, 
Till Jove at length superior glory gave 
To Hector, Priam's son who entered first 
Achaia's wall. With loud, tremenduous shout, 
He called his Trojan heroes : 2 "Sons of Troy, 8 
Equestrian warriors, to the onset come. 
Break now the Grecian wall, 23 and on their ships 
Throw flaming brands, like thunderbolts of Jove!" 
He said, inspiring fury. They his call 
With transport 16 heard throughout that numerous host! 
Thronging together, to the wall they ran, 9 
Armed with keen spears, before them held erect ; 
And mounted scaling-ladders. 2 Hector seized 
And bore a stone which stood before the gates, 
Heavy and craggy, pointed sharp at top, 
Which not two men, though stoutest of the race 
Earth now sustains, could, without toil, have moved 
By levers from the ground and heaved its mass 
Into a wagon ; yet did singly, he, 
Toss it with ease, so light Saturnian Jove 
Made it to him ! For, as a shepherd brings 
In one hand joyfully a ram's rich fleece, 
And feels but small the weight, so Hector bore 
That rock enormous toward the lofty gates, 
Strong-framed, with double valves, of panels thick, 



122 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Compact and firm ; two iron bars within, 
Transverse, secured them, fastened by a bolt. 

He near them took his stand, with legs astride, 
That not in vain that weapon should be thrown ; 
Then smote them in the midst with all his strength. 
And broke 23 both hinges. Thundering on, the stone, 
With force overwhelming, fell within the wall. 
Loud rang the yielding gates, asunder riven, 
Nor could the bars retain them ; flew the planks 
In splintered fragments, scattered every way. 23 
Into the pass illustrious Hector leaped ; 2 
Gloomy as night, with aspect stern and dread. 
Arrayed in brazen panoply, he shone 22 
Terrific ; in his hands two javelins keen. 
And surely no one could have checked him then, 
Except the gods, when through those gates he sprang ! 
His eyes, tremendous, flashed with living fire ; 
And, turning to his host, 8 he called them all 
To pass the barrier. They that call obeyed. 
Some clambered o'er the wall, while others through 
The portals poured ; and terror-struck, 22 the Greeks 
Fled to their hollow ships. Confusion dire, 2 
And uproar wild and horrible ensued. 

Homer. 



THE BESIEGED CASTLE. 

[Ivanhoe, an English knight, has been taken prisoner by the Normans and lies 
wounded in a chamber in a castle, under the care of Rebecca, the Jewess, who is also 
a prisoner. To her question if his wounds pain him, he replies :] 

, , \ £ Y mind, gentle maiden, is more disturbed by anxiety than my 



M' 



body with pain. From the speeches of these men who 

were my warders just now I learn that I am a prisoner ; and, 

if I judge aright of the loud, hoarse voice which even now dispatched 

them hence on some military duty, I am in the castle of Front-de- 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 123 

Bceuf. If I could but drag myself to yonder window that I might see 
how this brave game is like to go ! If I had but a bow to shoot 
a shaft, or a battle-axe to strike — were it but a single blow — for our 
deliverance ! It is vain ! it is vain ! I am alike nerveless and weapon- 
less ! " 

"Fret not thyself, noble knight. The sounds have ceased of a 
sudden ; it may be they join not to battle." 

" Thou knowest naught of it. This dead pause only shows that the 
men are at their posts on the walls, expecting an instant attack. 
What we have heard was but the distant muttering of the storm — it 
will burst anon in all its fury. Could I but reach yon window ! " 

" Thou wilt but injure thyself by the attempt, noble knight. I myself 
will stand at the lattice and describe to you, as I can, what passes 
without." 

"You must not — you shall not ! Each lattice, each aperture will be 
soon a mark for the archers ; some random shaft " 

"It shall be welcome." 

" Rebecca, dear Rebecca, this is no maiden's pastime.^ Do not 
expose thyself to wounds and death, and render me forever miserable 
for having given the occasion. At least, cover thyself with yonder 
ancient buckler, and show as little of thy person at the lattice as 
may be." 

Following his directions, Rebecca, with tolerable security to herself, 
could witness part of what was passing without the castle, and report 
to Ivanhoe the preparations which the assailants were making for the 
storm. 

"The skirts of the wood seemed lined with archers, although only 
a few are advanced from its dark shadow." 

" Seest thou who they be that act as leaders ? " 

"A knight clad in sable armor is the most conspicuous ; he alone is 
armed from head to heel, and seems to assume the direction of all 
around him," 

"Seem there no other leaders ? " 

" None of mark and distinction that I can behold from this station ; 



124 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

but doubtless the other side of the castle is also assailed — they appear 
even now to advance. They raise their bows ! God of Moses, forgive 
the creatures Thou hast made ! " 

Her description was here interrupted by the shouts of both parties 
augmenting the fearful din; the assailants crying : " St. George for 
Merrie England ! " and the Normans answering them with cries 
of " En avant, de Bracy ! " " Beau seant ! Beau seant ! " "Front-de- 
Bceuf a la rescousse!" according to the different war-cries of their 
commanders. 

"Look from the window once again, kind maiden, and tell me if they 
yet advance to the storm. What dost thou see, Rebecca ! " 

" Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle mine 
eyes and to hide the men who shoot them." 

"That cannot endure if they press not right on to carry the castle 
by pure force of arms ; the archery may avail but little against stone- 
walls and bulwarks. Look for the Black Knight and see how he bears 
himself; for as the leader is, so will his followers be." 

"I see him not." 

"Foul craven! Does he blench from the helm when the wind blows 
highest?" 

" He blenches not ! he blenches not! I see him now! He leads 
a body of men close under the outer barrier of the barbican. They 
have made a breach in the barriers — they rush in — they are thrust 
back ! Front-de-Bceuf heads the defenders ! They throng again 
to the breach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand and man to man." 

" Look forth again, Rebecca ! The archery must, in some degree, 
have ceased, since they are now fighting hand to hand." 

" He is down ! he is down! " 

"Who is down?" 

"The Black Knight ! But no — but no — he is on foot again and 
fights as if there were twenty men's strength in his single arm. His 
sword is broken — he snatches an axe from a yeoman — he presses 
Front-de-Bceuf with blow on blow — he falls — he falls ! " 

"Front-de-Bceuf?" 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 125 

' Yes ; his men rush to the rescue, headed by the haughty Templar. 
Their united force compels the champion to pause — they drag Front- 
de-Bceuf within the walls ! " 

"The assailants have won the barriers, have they not? " 

" They have ! they have! " 

" Who yield ? Who push their way ? " 

" The besieged have the better." 

"Saint George, strike for us ! Do the false yeomen give way ? " 

" No, they bear themselves right yeomanly. The Black Knight 
approaches the postern with his huge . axe — the thundering blows 
which he deals you may hear above all the din of the battle. The 
postern gate shakes — it crashes — it is splintered by his blows ! They 
rush in — the outwork is won ! O Heaven ! they hurl the defenders 
from the battlements — they throw them into the moat. O men, if ye 
be indeed men, spare them that can resist no longer ! Alas ! I see it 
is still more difficult to look upon victory than battle." 

"What do they now, maiden? This is no time to faint at blood- 
shed." 

"It is over for the time." 

"Our friends will surely not abandon an enterprise so gloriously 
begun and so happily attained. Oh, no ! I will put my faith in the 
good knight — I swear by the honor of my house ; I vow by the name 
of my lady love, I would endure ten years' captivity to fight one day 
by that good knight's side in such a quarrel as this ! " 

"Alas! this impatient yearning after action will not fail to injure 
your returning health. How couldst thou hope to inflict wounds on 
others ere that be healed which thou thyself hast received ? " 

" Rebecca, dear Rebecca, thou knowest not how impossible it is for 
one trained to actions of chivalry to remain passive as a priest or a 
woman when they are acting deeds of honor around him. The love of 
battle is the food upon which we live; the dust, the melee, is the breath 
of cur nostrils ! We live not — we wish not to live longer than while we 
are victorious and renowned. Such, maiden, are the laws of chivalry 
to which we are sworn, and to which we offer all that we hold dear." 



126 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

"Would to Heaven that I could redeem Judah ! Would that mine 
own blood might avail to set free my father, and this his benefactor 
from the chains of the oppressor ! He sleeps! Nature exhausted by 
sufferance and waste of spirits, his wearied frame embraces, the first 
moments of temporary relaxation to sink into slumber." 

At that moment he awakened, only to be sensible of a new danger 
— the burning of the castle. The Templar came and bore Rebecca 
from the scene. At that instant the Black Knight entered the apart- 
ment, seized Ivanhoe and rushed to the postern. One turret was now 
in flames, which burst out furiously from window and shot-hole. The 
towering flames soon surmounted every obstruction and rose to the 
evening skies, one huge and burning beacon, seen far and wide 
throughout the adjacent country. Tower after tower crashed down 
with blazing roof and rafter, and the combatants were driven from the 
court-yard. 

The victors, assembling in large bands, gazed with fear and wonder 
upon the flames. At length, with a terrific crash, the whole turret 
gave way, and a voice was heard: "Shout, yeomen, the den of tyrants 
is no more ! " — Sir Walter Scott. 



BOADICEA. 

[The figures in this spirited selection refer to the corresponding numbers in Parti.] 

[Boadicea was queen of the Iceni, a British tribe inhabiting what are now the 
counties of Cambridge, Suffolk and Norfolk. The King, her husband, having died, 
bequeathed all his possessions to the Emperor Nero and his two daughters. The 
Roman centurions, however, took his kingdom, and gave his daughters to their 
slaves, while Boadicea was publicly scourged for some real or imaginary offence. 
The Roman governor being absent, she burst into London, at the head of a large 
army, burned the city and killed thousands of the Romans and Roman subjects. 
The Roman governor immediately hurried home, and a battle was fought near St. 
Albans. The Britons, although they fought valiantly and fiercely, were defeated by 
the disciplined Romans. Boadicea poisoned herself, A. D. 62.] 

WHEN the British warrior Queen, bleeding from the Roman rods, 
Sought, with an indignant mien, counsel of her country's gods ; 
Sage beneath a spreading oak sat the Druid, hoary chief; 
Every burning word he spoke, full of rage and full of grief: 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 127 

" Princess, if our aged eyes weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 

'Tis because resentment 15 ties all the terrors of our tongues. 

Rome shall perish 23 — write that word in the blood that she has spilt; 

Perish hopeless and abhorred, 4 deep in ruin as in guilt. 

"Rome, for empire far renowned, 16 tramples on a thousand states; 
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground 7 — hark ! u the Gaul is at her gates! 
Other Romans shall arise, heedless of a soldier's name ; 
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, harmony the path to fame. 

" Then the progeny that springs from the forests of our land, 
Armed with thunder, clad with wings, shall a wider world command, 10 
Regions Caesar never knew thy posterity shall sway ; 
Where his eagles never flew, none invincible as they." 

Such the bard's prophetic words, pregnant with celestial fire ; 
Bending as he swept the chords of his sweet but awful lyre. 
She, with all a monarch's pride, felt them in her bosom glow; 
Rushed to battle, 2 fought and died — dying, hurled them at the foe: 
" Ruffians, 15 pitiless as proud ! Heaven awards the vengeance due ! 
Empire is on us bestowed, 2 shame and ruin wait for you !" 

William Cowper. 

THE RACE. 

T "THEN Vronsky looked at his watch, it was half-past five. On 
\Si this day there were to be several races, and in the last he was 
to take part. When he reached his quarters no one was there 
except his valet. Everybody had gone to the races. He noticed near 
the stable Makhotin's white-footed chesnut Gladiator which they were 
leading out. 

"Where is Cord? " he asked of the groom. 

"In the stable; he is fixing the saddle." 

Then appeared Frou-Frou. Vronsky gave a quick glance at his 
horse, as she stood trembling in every limb. 

The two-verst dash was just at an end. The crowd flowed in from 



128 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

all sides. The horses were getting ready for the hurdle race. The 
grooms were leading back the horses, wearied by the race which they 
had run ; and, one by one, those intended for the next course appeared 
on the ground. Frou-Frou came out stepping high. Vronsky had 
scarcely time to make some adjustment of the saddle, when those who 
were to compete in the hurdle race were called to receive their 
numbers. They approached, seventeen men in all. Vronsky's number 
was seven. 

" Mount ! " was the cry. 

The groom stood by the mare's head holding the reins in his hand. 
Frou-Frou shivered as though she had an attack of fever. Her master 
cast a final glance on his rivals, he knew he should not see them 
again until the race was over. Gulkum, one of the best racers, was 
turning around and around his bay stallion without being able to 
mount. A little hussar, in tight trousers, was off on a gallop, bent 
double over his horse in English fashion. Prince Kuzofief, white 
as a sheet, was trying to mount a thorough-bred mare. He was 
timid, still he had made up his mind to ride. They exchanged glances 
and Vronsky gave him an encouraging nod. One only now he failed 
to see — his most redoubtable rival, Makhotin, on Gladiator, was not 
there. 

"Don't be in haste," said Cord, "and don't forget when you come 
to a hurdle not to pull back or spur on your horse ; let her take her 
own way. If possible, take the lead, but don't be discouraged, if for 
a few moments, you are behind." 

"Very good," replied Vronsky. The horse did not have time 
to stir before he gracefully and firmly took his seat on the saddle. 
Then he arranged the double reins between his fingers, and Cord let 
go the animal's head. Frou-Frou stretched out her neck, and started 
off at an easy, elastic pace, balancing her rider on her strong, flexible 
back. They were approaching the river's bank, where the starting- 
post was placed. Vronsky, preceded by some, followed by others, 
suddenly heard on the track the gallop of a horse, and Gladiator with 
Makhotin on his back, dashed by. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 129 

The course was a great ellipse with nine obstacles upon it — the 
river ; a high barrier ; in front of the pavilion a dry ditch ; a ditch filled 
with water; a steep ascent ; an Irish banquette, which is the most 
difficult of all, composed of an enbankment covered with twigs, behind 
which is concealed a ditch, obliging the horseman to leap two obstacles 
at once ; then three more ditches ; and, finally, the goal opposite the 
pavilion again. 

At last, the signal was given, "Go ! " and the riders spurred their 
horses. All eyes were directed toward the races. 

"There they go ! " "There they come!" was shouted on all sides. 
And in order to follow them, the spectators rushed singly or in groups 
toward the places where they could get a better view. Frou-Frou, 
nervous at first, lost ground, and several of the horses were ahead of 
her ; but Vronsky, trying to calm her as she pulled on the bridle, soon 
outstripped the three who had won on him, and now had as competi- 
tors only Gladiator, who was a whole length ahead, and the pretty 
Diana, on whose back clung the unhappy Kuzofief, not knowing 
whether he was dead or alive. 

Gladiator and Diana leaped the reka at almost one and the same 
moment ; Frou-Frou lightly leaped behind them, as though she had 
wings. While in the air, Vronsky caught a glimpse of Kuzofief almost 
under the feet of his horse ; and heard, after the race, how he had 
loosened his reins as Diana jumped, and the horse had stumbled, 
throwing him to the ground. At this time, he only saw that Frou-Frou 
was going to land on Diana's head. But Frou-Frou, like a falling 
cat, making a desperate effort, landed beyond the fallen rider. 

"O my beauty!" exclaimed Vronsky. After this he gained full 
control of his horse, even held her back, meaning to leap the great 
hurdle behind Makhotin, whom he had no hope of outstripping before 
they reached the long stretch free of obstacles. This great hurdle was 
built in front of the Imperial Pavilion. The Emperor, the Court, and 
an immense throng were watching. Vronsky saw only his horse's 
ears, and the ground flying under him, and Gladiator's flanks and the 
white feet beating the ground in cadence, always maintaining the same 



130 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

distance between them. Gladiator flew at the hurdle, gave a whisk of 
his tail, and, without having touched the hurdle, vanished from 
Vronsky's eyes. 

"Bravo ! " cried a voice. 

At the same instant the planks of the hurdle flashed before his eyes, 
his horse leaped without breaking; but he heard behind • him a loud 
crash. Frou-Frou, excited by the sight of Gladiator, had leaped* too 
soon, and had struck the hurdle with the shoes on her hind feet. Her 
gait was unchanj^d; and the distance had not increased or diminished 
between them, ab Vronsky again caught a glimpse of Gladiator's 
crupper, his short tail and his white feet. Frou-Frou seemed to have 
the same thought as her master, for she increased her speed and 
gained on Makhotin by trying to take the inside track. But Makhotin 
did not yield the advantage. Frou-Frou changed and took the farther 
side of the slope. Her shoulder closed with Gladiator's flanks. For 
a few seconds they flew along almost side by side; but in order to take 
the outer side of the circle, Vronsky urged Frou-Frou on just as they 
passed the divide, and on the descent managed to get the lead. As he 
drew near, it seemed to him Makhotin smiled. Though he was 
behind, Vronsky could hear the regular rhythm of the stallion's feet 
and his hurried breathing. 

The next two obstacles, the ditch and the hurdle, were easily passed ; 
but Gladiator's gallop came nearer. Vronsky gave Frou-Frou the 
spur ; the sound of Gladiator's hoof-beats grew fainter. He now had 
the lead and felt sure of success. A single serious obstacle remained 
— the Irish banquette — which, if cleared, would give him the victory. 
Vronsky was just lifting his whip, when it occurred to him that Frou- 
Frou knew what to do. The beautiful creature gave a start, rose from 
the ground, cleared the ditch, and far beyond, then fell again into the 
measure of her pace. 

" Bravo ! Bravo ! " cried the throng. 

The last ditch was left. Anxious to come in far ahead of the others, 
Vronsky began to urge his horse by falling into her motions, and lean- 
ing far over her head. He felt sure she was beginning to be exhausted ; 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 131 

her neck and sides were wet, her breath was short and gasping. Still 
he was sure she would reach the goal. Only because he felt himself 
near the end, and by the extraordinary smoothness of her motion did 
he realize how much she had increased her speed. The ditch was 
cleared — how, he did not know. She cleared it like a bird. 

But Vronsky felt to his horror that instead of taking the swing of 
his horse, he had a wrong motion in falling back in the saddle. He 
knew something horrible had happened of which he could not get any 
clear idea. But there flashed by him a roan steed with white feet, — 
and Makhotin was the winner ! 

Frou-Frou stumbled. Vronsky had scarcely time to clear himself 
when the horse fell on her side, panting painfully, making vain efforts 
with her delicate, foam-covered neck to rise He saw only one thing 
— Gladiator was far ahead and he was standing there alone before his 
defeated Frou-Frou, who stretched her head toward him, and looked 
at him with her beautiful eyes. He pulled on the reins , the poor 
animal struggled and tried to get on her legs, but fell back all 
of a tremble. Vronsky, pale with rage, kicked her to force her to rise. 
She did not move, but gazed at her master with speaking looks. 

"A-h ! what have I done ? " cried he, taking her head in his hands. 
"What have I done?" 

By the movement he had made in the saddle he had broken her 
back ! — Lyof Tolstoi. 



THE KING'S TRAGEDY. 

[The theme is the well-known heroic act of Catharine Douglas, in barring the 
door of the King's chamber with her arm against the murderers of James I., the 
poet-king of Scotland. ] 



I 



CATHARINE, am a Douglas born, a name to all Scots dear; 

But Kate Barlass they've called me now, through many a waning 

year. 
Aye, lasses, draw round Kate Barlass, and hark with bated breath, 
How good King James, King Robert's son, was foully done to death, 



132 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

When years had waned, loving, toiling years, England's fierce wrongs 

renewed 
Drove James, by outrage cast on his crown, to the open field of feud. 
'Twas when the King and his host were met at the league of Roxbro' 

hold, 
The Queen o' the sudden sought his camp with a tale of dread to be 

told. 

And she showed him a secret letter writ that spoke of treasonous strife, 
And how a band of his noblest lords were sworn to take his life. 
And when he summoned his Parliament, the louring brows hung round, 
Like clouds that circle the mountain-head ere the first low thunders 
sound. 

'Twas then upspoke Sir Robert Graeme, the bold, o'ermastering man: 
" O King, in the name of your three estates I set you under their ban! " 
With that he laid his hands on his King : " Is this not right, my lords?" 
But of all who had sworn to league with him not one spake back to 
his words. 

Quoth the King; "Thou speak'st but for one estate, nor doth it avow 

thy gage. 
Let my liege lords hale this traitor hence ! " The Graeme fired dark 

with rage: 
"Who works for lesser men than himself, he earns but a witless wage! " 
But soon from the dungeon where he lay he won by privy plots, 
And forth he fled with a price on his head to the country of the wild 

Scots. 

And word there came from Sir Robert Graeme 

To the King at Edinbro': 
"No liege of mine thou art; but I see, 
From this day forth, alone in thee, 

God's creature, my mortal foe. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 133 

'Twas in the charterhouse of Perth, that the King and all his court 
Were met, the Christmas feast being done, for solace and disport. 
And the Queen was there, more stately fair than a lily in a garden set; 
And as on the day when she was his bride, even so the King loved 
her yet. 

And now there came a torch-light glare, and a clang of arms there 

came; 
And not a soul in that space but thought of the foe, Sir Robert Graeme. 
The King knew all in an instant's flash; and like a king did he stand; 
But there was no armor in all the room, nor weapon lay to his hand. 

And all we women flew to the door, and thought to have made it fast; 

But the bolts were gone and the bars were gone, and the locks were 
riven and brast. 

Then on me leaped the Queen like a deer: "O Catharine, help!" she 
cried. 

And low at his feet we clasped his knees, together side by side. 

"For her sake most," I cried, and I marked the pangs that my words 
could ring. 

"Wrench up the plank! and the vault beneath shall yield safe har- 
boring-." 



';=>• 



Then he cried to the Queen, " God's will be done! " 

For her hands were clasped in prayer, 
And down he sprang to the inner crypt ; 
And straight we closed the plank he had ripped, 

And toiled to smooth it fair. 

Then the Queen cried, " Catharine, keep the door, and I to this will 

suffice ! " 
At her word I rose, all dazed, to my feet, and my heart was fire and ice. 
And now the rush was heard on the stair, and "God, what help?" was 

our cry. 
I looked at each empty stanchion-hold, and no bar but my arm had I. 



134 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Like iron felt my arm, as through 

The staple I made it pass 
Alack ! it was flesh and bone — no more ! 
'Twas Catharine Douglas sprang to the door, 

But I fell back, Kate Barlass. 

With that they all thronged into the hall, half dim to my failing ken ; 
And the space that was but a void before was a crowd of wrathful men. 

And one of them seized the Queen and cried : 

" Now tell us, where is thy lord ? " 
And he held the sharp point over her heart, 
She drooped not her eyes, nor did she start, 

But she answered never a word. 

Then the sword half pierced the true, true breast, 

But it was the Graeme's own son 
Cried : "This is a woman, we seek a man ! " 

And away from her girdle zone 
And he struck the point of the murderous steel ; 

And that foul deed was not done. 

And forth flowed all the throng like a sea, and 'twas empty space 

once more ; 
And my eyes sought out the wounded Queen as I lay behind the door, 
And I said.: "Dear Lady, leave me here, for I cannot help you now; 
But fly while you may, and none shall reck of my place here lying low." 

But now again came the armed tread, and fast through the hall it fell; 
But the throng was less ; and ere I saw, by the voice without I could 

tell 
That Robert Stuart had come with them, who knew that chamber well, 
And Stuart held a torch to the floor, and he found the thing he sought; 
And they slashed the plank away with their swords ; and O God ! 

I fainted not ! 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 135 

And through the vapor and fire, beneath, on the dark crypt's narrow 

wing, 
With a shout that pealed to the room's high roof, they saw their hated 

King. 

And he smote and trampled them under him ; and a long month thence 

they bare 
All black their throats with the grip of his hands when the hangman's 

hand came there. 

But while the King- o'er his foes still raged, 

With a heart that none could tame, 
Another man sprang down to the crypt, 
And with his sword in his hand hard-gripped, 

There stood Sir Robert Graeme. 

And the traitor looked on the King's spent strength, 

And said: "Have I kept my word? 
Yea, King, the mortal pledge that I gave ? 
No blackfriar's shrift thy soul shall have, 

But the shrift of this red sword." 

With that he smote his King through the breast, and three of them in 

that pen 
Fell on him and stabbed him, and stabbed him there like merciless, 

murderous men. 
'Twas in the fair-lit death-chapelle, lay the slain King's corpse on a 

bier, 
And, girls, 'twas a sweet, sad thing to see how the curling, golden hair, 
As in the day of the poet's youth, from the King's crown clustered there. 

And if all had come to pass in the brain 

That throbbed beneath those curls, 
Then Scots had said in the days to come, 
That this their soil was a different home, 

And a different Scotland, girls. 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 



136 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

THE NEW SOUTH, 

[Response to a toast delivered at the annual dinner cf the New England Society.] 
^HERE was a South of secession and slavery — that South is 



T 



dead. There is a South of Union and freedom — that South 
is living, breathing, growing every hour." 

I accept the term, "The New South," as in no sense disparaging to 
the Old. Dear to me is the home of my childhood and the traditions 
of my people. There is a New South, not through protest against 
the Old, but because of new conditions, new adjustments, and, if you 
please, new ideas and aspirations. It is to this that I address myself. 
You have just heard an eloquent description of the triumphant armies 
of the North, and the grand review at Washington. 

I ask you, gentlemen, to picture, if you can, the foot-sore soldier, 
who, buttoning up in his faded gray jacket the parole which was 
taken, testimony to his children of his fidelity and faith, turned his face 
southward from Appomattox in April, 1865. Think of him as ragged, 
half-starved, heavy-hearted, enfeebled by wants and wounds. Having 
fought to exhaustion, he surrenders his gun, wrings the hands of his 
comrades, and, lifting his tear-stained and pallid face for the last time 
to the graves that dot the old Virginia hills, pulls his gray cap over 
his brow and begins the slow and painful journey. 

What does he find ? — let me ask you, who went to your homes 
eager to find all the welcome you had justly earned, full payment for 
your four years' sacrifice — what does he find, when he reaches the 
home he left four years before ? He finds his house in ruins, his farm 
devastated, his slaves freed, his stock killed, his barns empty, his trade 
destroyed, his money worthless, his social system, feudal in its magni- 
ficence, swept away, his people without law or legal status, his com- 
rades slain, and the burdens of others heavy on his shoulders. Crushed 
by defeat, his very traditions gone, without money, credit, employment, 
material or training — and, besides all this, confronted with the gravest 
problem that ever met human intelligence — the establishing of a status 
for the vast body of his liberated slaves. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 137 

What does he do — this hero in gray with a heart of gold — does 
he sit down in sullenness and despair ? Not for a day. Surely, God, 
who has scourged him in his prosperity, inspired him in his adversity ! 
As ruin was never before so overwhelming, never was restoration 
swifter. 

The soldiers stepped from the trenches into the furrow ; the horses 
that had charged upon General Sherman's line marched before the 
plow, and fields that ran red with human blood in April were green 
with the harvest in June. From the ashes left us in 1864, we have 
raised a brave and beautiful city ; somehow or other we have caught 
the sunshine in the bricks and mortar of our homes and have builded 
therein not one single ignoble prejudice or memory. 

This message, Mr. President, comes to you from consecrated 
ground. What answer has New England to this message ? Will she 
permit the prejudices of war to remain in the hearts of the conquer- 
ors when it has died in the hearts of the conquered ? Will she 
transmit this _ prejudice to the next generation, that in hearts which 
never felt the generous ardor of conflict it may perpetuate itself? 
Will she withhold, save in strained courtesy, the hand which straight 
from his soldier's heart Grant offered to Lee at Appomattox ? Will 
she make the vision of a restored and happy people, which gathered 
about the couch of your dying captain, filling his heart with peace, 
touching his lips with praise, and glorifying his path to the grave — 
will she make this vision, on which the last sigh of his expiring soul 
breathed a benedition, a cheat and a delusion ? If she does, the South, 
never abject in asking for comradeship, must accept with dignity its 
refusal. 

But if she does not refuse to accept in frankness and sincerity this 
message of good-will and friendship, then will the prophecy of Webster, 
delivered forty years ago amid tremendous applause, be verified in 
its fullest and final sense, when he said : "Standing hand to hand and 
clasping hands, we should remain united as we have been for sixty 
years, citizens of the same country, members of the same government, 
united, all united now and united forever." — W. H. Grady. 



138 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 



A 



LOVE LIGHTENS LABOR. 

GOOD wife rose from her bed one morn, 

And thought with a nervous dread 
Of the piles of clothes to be washed, and more 
Than a dozen mouths to be fed. 



There's the meals to get for the men in the field, 

And the children to fix away 
To school, and the milk to be skimmed and churned ; 

And all to be done that day. 

It had rained in the night, and all the wood 

Was wet as it could be ; 
And there were puddings and pies to bake, besides 

A loaf of cake for tea. 

And the day was hot, and her aching head 
Throbbed wearily as she said : 
"If maidens but knew what good wives know, 
They would be in no haste to wed ! " 

"Jennie, what do you think I told Ben Brown ?" 
Called the farmer from the well ; 
And a flush crept to his bronzed brow, 
And his eyes half bashfully fell ; 

"It was this," he said, and coming near, 
He smiled, and stooping down, 
Kissed her cheek — " 'twas this, that you were the best 
And the dearest wife in town ! " 

The farmer went back to the field, and the wife 

In a smiling and absent way, 
Sang snatches of tender little songs 

She'd not sung for many a day. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 139 

And the pain in her head was gone, and the clothes 

Were as white as the foam of the sea ; 
Her bread was light, and her butter was sweet, 

And golden as it could be, 

" Just think," the children all called in a breath, 
"Tom Wood has run off to sea ; 
He wouldn't, I know, if he only had 
As happy a home as we." 

The night came down, and the good wife smiled 
To herself, as she softly said : 
"'Tis so sweet to labor for those we love, 
It's not strange that maids will wed ! " 



A SCHOOLROOM IDYL. 

HOW plainly I remember all ! 
The desks, deep-scored and blackened, 
The row of blackbroards 'round the wall, 
The hum that never slackened ; 
And, framed about by map and chart, 

And casts of dusty plaster, 
That wisest head and warmest heart, 
The kindly old schoolmaster ! 

I see the sunny corner nook 

His blue-eyed daughter sat in, 
A rosy, fair-haired girl, who took 

With us her French and Latin. 
How longingly I watched the hours 

For Ollendorff and Caesar ! 
And how I fought with Tommy Powers 

The day he tried to tease her ! 



140 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

And when, one day, it took the " Next ! " 

To stay some Gallic slaughter, 
Because I quite forget the text 

Jn smiling at his daughter, 
And she and I were "kept till four 

To study, after closing," 
We stopped the clock an hour or more 

While he, poor man, was dozing! 

And there he sits, with bended head, 

O'er some old volume poring 
(Or so he thinks; if truth be said 

He's fast asleep and snoring), 
And where the shaded lamplight plays 

Across the cradle's rocking, 
My schoolmate of the olden days 

Sits, mending baby's stocking. 

Charles B, Going. 



H 



ONE OF THE HEROES. 

[Read rapidly and with intense feeling.] 

ARK, — through the wild night's darkness rings out a terrible cry, 
And the woman shudders to hear it in the room up close to the sky : 
"Fire," in accents of terror, and voices the cry repeat, 
And the fire-bells join in the clamor out in the stormy street. 



" God grant we are safe, my darling," she says to the child in her arms, 
While the voices far down in the darkness add to the bell's alarms ; 
Then she thinks of the two little children who are sleeping peacefully 

near, 
And "God pity the people in danger," she adds with a thrill of fear. 

The voices ring louder and louder. She hears the swift tread of feet 
And the sound of engines rumbling below in the stormy street. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 141 

" It must be the fire is near us." She listens : a step on the stair, 
Then the door is flung wide and beyond it she sees the red flames' glare. 

"Give me the child," cries the fireman. " There's not a moment to 

spare," 
The flames like a glittering serpent are writhing up the stair. 
"No, I will carry my baby," and then she points to the bed 
Where the light from the hall shines brightly over a golden head. 

One little head on the pillow, — one only, — the fireman sees, 
With flossy curls stirring about it in the breath of the fiery breeze. 
He lifts the child while the other is cuddled away from sight, 
And springs down the stair where the flame-hounds snarl after their 
prey in its flight. 

On, on, through the fire that leaps round him as a swimmer breasts 

the wave, 
Scorched and blinded and breathless, to find escape or a grave! 
On through the fiery whirlpool till at last he gains the street, 
Thank God ! and lays down his burden safe at the mother's feet. 

" One, only one f" she cries wildly. " You have left the other to die ! " 

Oh ! the terrible, terrible anguish that rings in the mother's cry. 

"/will save you, my child, or die with you ! " and, maddened by love's 
despair, 

She puts her babe from her bosom and springs toward the flame- 
wreathed stair. 

"You shall not go," he tells her, and holds her back from death, 
" I left your child, — I will save it, — if I can." Then, catching his breath 
For the terrible task before him, he leaps up the lurid way. 
"God help him," the awed crowd whispers. " He goes to his death," 
they say. 

Moments that seem like ages go by and he comes not back. 

The flames leap higher and higher. The weak walls sway and crack. 



142 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

"Oh, my lost little child!" cries the mother, forgetting the babes at 

her breast, 
In this moment of awful anguish she loveth the lost child best. 

Up from the crowd all breathless with hope and doubt and fear 

Goes a cry: "Thank God, he's coming with the child!" and cheer on 

cheer 
Rings through the night, blending strangely with the wind and the 

wild flames' roar, 
As out of the tottering building the fireman springs once more. 

Straight to the mother he staggers with the rescued child and cries : 
" I left him, and I have saved him ! " and the hero looks out of his eyes. 
Then he falls at her feet ; they crowd round him, and lift his drooping 

' head. 
"I — saved — the — child," he whispers, — a gasp — and the hero is dead. 

Eben E. Rexford. 



M 



THE GRAVE. 

[Written expressly for this Volume.] 

ORE, more ! My cry is never stilled, 
I am the grave, and never filled. 
Beneath the stones 
I crunch their bones, 
I claw their eyes, I freeze their veins, 
I blast their life — no life remains. 



I soil their beauty with damp rust, 
I grind their beauty into dust, 

Their hands I hold, 

And turn to mould, 
I smite the skull where brain hath been, 
I smite the skull and break it in. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 143 

Ha, ha ! I have them in my grip, 
I hold them fast, they cannot slip, 

Their throats I grab, 

Their hearts 1 stab, 
I quell their moans, I still their trouble — 
I'm what the fire is to stubble. 

Gods were they called by men, at birth, 
I lay them low, low down in earth; 

They once wore crowns, 

And put on frowns ; 
I wind them in the clammy sheet, 
I crush them 'neath my iron feet. . 

Jaws spoke decrees — I rend their jaws, 
I rend their flesh with ghastly claws ; 

Go, bring them hither — 

They come, they wither ; 
I slay their hopes, I kill their pride, 
Their eyes are dead, their blood is dried. 

Victor, come here ! Thou homeless, come ! 
For one, defeat — for one, a home ! 

Thou pauper there, 

Thou millionaire — 
Beneath your ribs I dig and burrow, 
I plough you under in one furrow. 

I seize them all, there's no reprieve, 
I munched old Adam, dined on Eve, 
. Caesars I bound 
Fast under ground ; 
I snuff out kings, the kings are not, 
I rout their hosts, their armies rot. 






144 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Tears, tears ? But what care I for tears ? 
Fears, fears ? I laugh and mock at fears • 

The tears I freeze, 

No fears appease ; 
I skin the brow, I pale the cheek, 
I still the laughter, hush the shriek. 

Since time began I've crushed and killed — 
More, more ! My maw is never filled ; 

I take the worst, 

The sin-accursed, 
I take the best, give all blank rest, 
I grin and swallow them with zest. 

Back, back ! Think'st thou to play the cheat ? 
Can I be bought ? Can I be beat ? 
They hear my cry — 
They faint, they die ! 
• O Godlike man, O chain-bound slave, 
Come here ! Thy master is the grave ! 

Henry Davenport. 



A BATTERY IN HOT ACTION. 

[This thrilling description should be read with great animation and with rather 

rapid enunciation.] 

DID you ever see a battery take position ? 
It hasn't the thrill of a cavalry charge, nor the grimness of a 
line of bayonets moving slowly and determinedly on, but there is 
a peculiar excitement about it that makes old veterans rise in their 
saddles and cheer. 

We have been fighting at the edge of the woods. Every cartridge- 
box has been emptied once or more, and one-fourth of the brigade 
has melted away in dead and wounded and missing. Not a cheer is 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 145 

heard in the whole brigade. We know that we are being driven foot 
by foot, and that wher we break once more the line will go to pieces 
and the enemy will pour through the gap. 

Here comes help ! 

Down the crowded highway gallops a battery, withdrawn from 
some other position to save ours. The field fence is scattered while 
you could count thirty, and the guns rush from the hills behind us. 
Six horses to a piece — three riders to each gun. Over dry ditches 
where a farmer would no f drive a wagon, through clumps of bushes, 
over logs a foot thick, every horse on the gallop, every rider lashing 
his team and yelling — the sight behind us making us forget the sight 
in front The guns jump two feet high as the heavy wheels strike a 
rock or log, but not a horse slackens his pace, not a cannoneer loses his 
seat Six guns, six caissons, sixty horses, eighty men, race for the 
brow of the hill as if he who should reach it first would be knighted. 

A moment ago the battery was a confused mob. We look again, 
and the six guns are in position, the detached horses hurrying away, 
the ammunition chests open, and along our line runs the command: 

"Give them one more volley and fall back to support the guns." 
We have scarely obeyed when boom ! boom ! opens the battery, and 
jets of fire jump down and scorch the green trees under which we 
fought and despaired 

The shattered old brigade has a chance to breathe for the first time 
in three hours, as we form a line and lie down. What grim, cool 
fellows those cannoneers are. Every man is a perfect machine. 
Bullets splash dust in their faces, but they do not wince. Bullets sing 
over and around ; they do not dodge. There goes one to the earth, 
shot through the head as he sponged his gun. That machinery loses 
just one beat, misses just one cog in the wheels and then works away 
again as before. 

Every gun is using short-fuse shell. The ground shakes and trem- 
bles, the roar shuts out all sound from a line three miles long, and the 
shells go shrieking into the swamp to cut trees short off, to mow great 
gaps in the bushes, hunt out and shatter and mangle men until their 
10 



146 ■ DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

corpses cannot be recognized as human. You would think a tornado 
was howling through the forest followed by billows of fire, and yet 
men live through it — aye ! press forward to capture the battery. We 
can hear their shouts as they form the rush. 

Now the shells are changed for grape and canister, and guns are 
fired so fast that all reports blend into one mighty roar. The shriek 
of a shell is the wickedest sound in war, but nothing makes the flesh 
crawl like the demoniacal singing, purring, whistling grape shot, and 
the serpent-like hiss of canister. 

Men's legs and heads are torn from bodies and bodies cut in twain. 
A round shot or shell takes two men out of the ranks as it crashes 
through. Grape and canister mow a swath and pile the dead on top 
of each other. 

Through the smoke we see a swarm of men. It is not a battle 
line, but a mob of men desperate enough to bathe their bayonets in the 
flame of the guns. The guns leap from the ground almost as they 
are depressed on the foe, and shrieks and screams and shouts blend 
into one awful and steady cry. Twenty men out of the battery are 
down, and the firing is interrupted. The foe accept it as a sign of 
wavering and come rushing on. They are not ten feet away when the 
guns give them the last shot. That discharge picks the living men off 
their feet and throws them into the swamp, a blackened, bloody mass. 

Up, now, as the enemy are among the guns. There is a silence of 
ten seconds, and then the flash and roar of more than 3,000 muskets 
and a rush forward with bayonets. For what ? Neither on the right 
nor left-nor in front of us is a living foe ! There are corpses around 
us which have been struck by' three, four and even six bullets, and 
nowhere on this acre of ground is a wounded man. The wheels of 
the guns cannot move until the blockade of dead is removed. Men 
cannot pass from caisson to gun without passing over windrows of 
dead. Every gun and wheel is smeared with blood ; every foot of 
grass has its horrible stain. 

Historians write of the glory of war. Burial parties saw murder 
where historians saw glory. 



A 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 147 

SAM. 
[Give the call, "Ho boss," in the different voices,] 

COUNTRY boy by the old stone wall, 

That keeps the meadow and road apart, 
Stands handsome and manly and strong and tall ; 

And sturdy is he as the maple tree 
That's by his side. For Sam is young 

And his honest heart is as light and free 
As the bird that sings in the summer skies. 

He looks far off o'er the distant hills, 
While a soft light shines in his hazel eyes ; 

And leaning there by the meadow wall, 

He gives this sweet, familiar call : 
" Ho boss ! ho boss ! ho boss ! 

Now to manhood grown, and the bells sound sweet 

As the cows come slowly from out the wood ; 
And he leaves the wall and hurries to meet 

The mild-eyed creatures, for they all know 
The hand that strokes them as they pass 

Along the road where the daisies grow. 
And each one stands by the cow-yard bars 

Seeming well content with the strong brown hand 
That milks them there 'neath the summer stars ; 

And Sam's eyes look love as he sings again 

The well-remembered, sweet refrain, 
" Ho boss ! ho boss ! ho boss ! " 

'Twas a day in June, such as poets love, 

There by his side a fair girl stands, 
And the flying clouds in the sky above 

Seem to play at forfeits with the sun. 
How well Sam knows that a lover's heart 



148 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Throbs 'neath his coat, and that every one 
Of the clover blossoms in the field 

Is breathing to him an old love-song, 
And that every bud a joy can yield. 

So the maiden there by the broken wall 

Takes up and sings the old time call, 
" Ho boss ! ho boss ! ho boss ! " 

Once more Sam stands by the meadow bars 

With his wife beside him, and her arms 
Enfold a dear form, whose baby prate 

Is sweeter to them than the brook's gay song 
As it flows away at the foot of the hill. 

Happy they wait, for they know ere long 
The cows will come from the meadow side. 

So Sam caresses his little son, 
While the young wife looks with joy and pride ; 

And a piping voice o'er the old stone wall 

Just breathes in baby notes the call, 
" Ho boss ! ho boss ! ho boss ! " 

Albert Hardy. 



A TRIBUTE TO COLUMBUS. 

BEHIND him lay the gray Azores, 
Behind the gates of Hercules ; 
Before him not the ghost of shores, 

Before him only shoreless seas. 
The good mate said, " Now must we pray, 

For lo ! the very stars are gone. 
Brave Adm'ral, speak ; what shall I say ? " 
" Why say, Sail on ! sail on ! and on ! " 

" My men grew mutinous day by day ; 
My men grew ghastly, wan and weak." 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 149 

The stout mate thought of home ; a spray 

Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. 
" What shall I say, brave Adm'ral say, 

If we sight naught but seas at dawn ? " 
" Why, you shall say, at break of day, 

" Sail on ! sail on ! sail on ! and on ! " 

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, 

Until at last the blanched mate said, 
"Why, now not even God would know 

Should I and all my men fall dead. 
These very winds forget their way, 

For God from these dread seas is gone. 
Now speak, brave Adm'ral, speak and say — " 

He said, " Sail on ! sail on ! and on ! " 

They sailed. They sailed. Then spoke the mate, 

" This mad sea shows its teeth to-night. 
He curls his lip, he lies in wait, 

With lifted teeth as if to bite. 
Brave Adm'ral, say but one good word ; 

What shall we do when hope is gone ? " 
The words leapt as a leaping sword, 

" Sail on ! sail on ! sail on ! and on ! " 

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, 

And peered through darkness. Ah, that night 

Of all dark nights ! And then a speck — 

A light ! A light ! A light ! A light ! 
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled, 

It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. 
He gained a world ; he gave that world 

It grandest lesson — " On ! and on ! " 

Joaquin Miller. 



150 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

MY LOVER. 

AT last I am blest with a lover, 
Just what a lover should be — 
Devoted, and constant, and handsome, 
Handsome as handsome can be. 

Devoted ! — devoted, believe me ! 

He never has left me a day ; 
I am ever his pride and his darling — 

Without me he cannot be gay. 

He cares for no lovelier lady ; 

To him I am very fair ; 
Contented, he rests on my bosom, 

Kisses my lips and my hair. 

Handsome ! — his cheeks are like roses, 
His head is run over with curls, 

His forehead is white as a snow drift, 
His teeth glimmer clearer than pearls. 

His eyes, they're as bright as the sunshine, 
With lashes that cannot be beat, 

And then I know that you've never 
Seen such hands and such feet. 

Wealthy? He's careless of money — 

Money to him is but dross ; 
Silver and gold, for my lover, 

Are only for pitch and for toss. 

He must have been born to a fortune — 
He's lived at his ease ever since ; 

If you'd see but the style of his dressing 
You'd probably think him a prince. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 151 

Shirts thick frosted with stitching, 

Silken embroidered socks ; 
I think the most of his money 

He keeps in a painted box. 

He'll show you a golden guinea 

On which he cut his first tooth, 
Strung on an azure ribbon, 

Tied with a love knot, forsooth ! 

Of teeth he has half a dozen. 

Set to the cunningest mould ; 
For I am my lover's mother — 

And he is but one year old ! 

Emma Mortimer White. 



P 



THE RIDE OF PAUL VENAREZ. 

[The figures in this selection refer to the corresponding numbers in Part I.] 

AUL VENAREZ heard them say, in the frontier town, that day, 



That a band of Red Plume's warriors was upon the trail of death ; 
Heard them tell 3 of murder done — three men killed at Rocky Run. 
"They're in danger up at Crawford's," said Venarez, under breath. 

"Crawford's " — thirty miles away 9 — was a settlement, that lay 
In a green and pleasant valley of the mighty wilderness ; 

Half a score of homes was there, and in one a maiden fair 

Held the heart of Paul Venarez — " Paul Venarez ' little Bess." 

So no wonder he grew pale when he heard the settler's tale 
Of the men he had seen murdered yesterday, at Rocky Run. 

" Not a soul will dream," he said, " of the danger that's ahead ; 
By my love for little Bessie, I must see that something's done." 



152 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Not a moment he delayed, when his brave resolve was made. 
" Why, my man," his comrades told him when they knew his daring 
plan, 
"You are going 1 straight to death." But he answered, "Save your 
breath, 15 
I may fail to get to Crawford's but I'll do the best I can." 

O'er the forest rail he sped, 9 and his thoughts flew on ahead 
To the little band at Crawford's, thinking not of danger near. 

" Oh, God help me save," 21 cried he, "little Bess ! " And fast and free 
Trusty Nell bore on the hero of the far-away frontier. 

Low and lower sank the sun. 9 He drew rein at Rocky Run ; 

" Here 7 these men met death, my Nellie," and he stroked his shorse' 
mane : 
"So will they we go to warn, ere the breaking of the morn, 

If we fail, God help us, 21 Nellie ! " Then he gave his horse the rein. 

Sharp and keen a rifle-shot woke the echoes of the spot. 17 

"Oh, my Nellie, 20 1 am wounded," cried Venarez with a moan, 

And the warm blood from his side spurted out in a red tide, 
And he trembled in the saddle, and his face had ashy grown. 

"I will save them 1 yet," he cried. " Bessie Lee shall know I died 
For her sake." And then he halted in the shelter of a hill : 

From his buckskin shirt he took, with weak hands a little book ; 
And he tore a blank leaf from it. "This," 1 said he, "shall be my 
will." 

From a branch a twig he broke, and he dipped his pen of oak 

In the red blood that was dripping from the wound below the heart. 

"Rouse," he wrote, "before too late. Red Plume's warriors lie in wait. 
Good-by, Bess ! God bless you always." Then he felt the warm 
tears start. 




MR. KENDALL. 



ONCE, THE CHALDEAN FROM THE TOPMOST TOWER 

D!D WATCH THE STARS. AND THEN ASSERT THEIR POWER 

THROUGHOUT THE WORLD.— the falcon. 




MRS KENDALL. 



SOMET MES A VAGRANT FANTASY 
FLITS LIKE A WANDER:NG FIRE-FLY, 
WE FAIN WOULD SEIZE IT. 'TIS SO NEAR- 
LOi SWiFTLY DOES IT DISAPPEAR!" 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. i53 

Then he made his message fast, love's first letter, and its last ; 

To his saddle-bow he tied it, while his lips were white with pain. 
" Bear my message, 2 if not me, safe to little Bess," said he. 

Then he leaned down in the saddle, and clutched hard the sweaty- 
mane. 

Just at dusk, a horse of brown, 9 flecked with foam, came panting down 
To the settlement at Crawford, and she stopped at Bessie's door. 

But her rider seemed asleep. Ah, his slumber was so deep 17 
Bessie's voice could never wake him, if she called forever more. 

You will hear the story told 3 by the young and by the old 

In the settlement at Crawfordjs, of the night when Red Plume came ; 

Of the sharp and bloody fight; how the chief fell and the flight 23 
Of the panic-stricken warriors. Then they speak Venarez ' name, 

In an awed and reverent way, as men utter " Let us pray," 

As we speak the name of 16 heroes, thinking how they lived and died; 

So his memory is kept green, while his face and heaven between 
Grow the flowers Bessie planted, ere they laid 7 her by his side. 



LA TOUR D'AUVERGNE. 

La Tour D'Auvergne was a French soldier noted for his bravery. Napoleon, at 
one time, by order of the directory, sent him a sword with an inscription declaring 
him to be "First grenadier of the Armies of the Republic." This he refused to 
accept, saying: "Among soldiers there is neither first or last." He steadily 
refused advancement in military rank, and was killed, a simple Captain, June 28, 
1800. When he died the whole French nation mourned for him three days, and 
until 1 8 14 his name continued to be called at the muster-roll, when the oldest ser- 
geant answered : "Died on the field of honor." 



1 



[The gesture figures refer to the corresponding numbers in Part I.J 

,NCE at eve a soldier brave 

Hastened up a stony way ; 
Rocks and shrubs and tangled vines 
Failed 4 his struggling steps to stay. 
Leaping swift 9 from crag to crag, 
Not a moment did he lag, 



154 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Till he reached a wild ravine 
Where a sheltered fort 9 was seen. 

Then he shouted loud and clear, 

" Guard, what ho ! 

Lo ! the foe 17 
Gathers round the lowland mere ! 
Man the guns and bar the gate ! 
Make all ready ; — watch and wait. 
Keep the pass a single day; 
Hold the Austrian foe 15 at bay 

This brief space, 
Then our army, van and rear 
Calling troops from far and near, 

Will apace 
March to certain 16 victory. 
Ho ! awake ; 21 arouse, ye dolts ! 
Turn the keys and draw the bolts ! " 

All amazed, 17 the grenadier 

Lists, in vain, response to hear. 

On he wends through open 2 door; — 

Guard and garrison 23 are fled ! 
All their arms upon the floor 

Tell of fright 22 and senseless dread. 
Filled with shame and shocked surprise 
At the sight before his eyes, 
Wrathfully the soldier cries : 
" Poltroons I 1 cowards ! knew ye not, 
One brave Frenchman 14 in this spot 

Might a thousand foemen rout ? 



■&' 



Single file they must deploy 
Through the narrow pass. Oh, 18 joy! 
/ will guard 6 the fort ! " A shout 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 155 

Leaps to the soldier's lips, 
As hurriedly he slips 
All the bolts within their sockets, 
Loads the guns and mounts the rockets, 

Makes all ready for the foe. 
Then he waits ; and list ! n a rustling ; 
'Tis the breeze? No, 'tis the bustling 
Of stealthy footsteps creeping slow. 

Whiz ! a rocket shoots 21 in air. 
"At your peril come ! 14 Beware !" 

Shouts, in tone defiant, 

This hero self-reliant. 
Halts the foe, his plan 3 betrayed; 
Now he'll wait for daylight's aid 

To attack the fort. 
While within, the grenadier ; 
Patient bides, with weapons near, 

And courage high upwrought. 

Bang ! the first shot cleaves the air, 
Just as Phoebus rises fair, 

And smites the silent tower. 
Bang, bang, bang, bang ! the shots fly fast. 
And bang! 1 the fort replies at last, 

And strikes with telling power. 
At every shot a foeman falls, 
Though singly come the musket balls, 

Whereat the Austrian 17 wonders. 
No heads above the ramparts 24 rise, 
No mark the enemy descries ; 

He blindly shoots 2 and blunders. 

Hour by hour until the eve, 
Fought the foe with slight reprieve, 



156 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Charging the grim redoubt, 
Each time there fell some comrades dead ; 
No wasted shot passed overhead ; 

And still the fort 14 held out. 

At length a herald drawing near 
Confronts a simple grenadier, 
To treat of terms of peace. 
" If you your firing will withhold 
Till daybreak," cried the Frenchman bold, 

We will the fort 7 release 
Into your hands, on promise sure 
Our garrison shall pass secure 

With all their arms." 
The Austrian herald bowed assent ; 
Each party passed the night content, 

Without alarms. 

At dawn the Austrian rank and file 
Drew up along 2 the close defile, 

To see their brave foes pass. 
How still 17 the fort ! No noise within ; 
No hurrying feet ; no parting din ; 

All quiet as at mass. 

Slow the rusty hinges turn ; 

Slow the massive gates unfold; 
Then with aspect calm and 14 stern, 
Bearing weight of arms untold, 
Comes a single 9 grenadier! 
As he marches past the van, 

Wondering 17 eyes are on him cast, 
"Where is the garrison, my man?" 
Cries the Austrian chief at last. 
Proudly rose the soldier's head, 
"/am 1 the garrison," he said. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 157 

"Your name, your name?" the Austrians cry. 

" La Tour d'Auvergne," comes in reply. 

"La Tour, La Tour," with three times three, 

"Hurrah! 16 hurrah ! we honor thee!" 

Cheer on cheer 

Burst from every Austrian heart ; 

And again, 

Down the 9 glen, 

The ringing echoes start. 

While the Colonel, bowing low, 

Said in accents grave : 

" I salute 1 my gallant foe, 

The bravest of the brave ! " 

Maida Buon. 



THE PRAIRIE MIRAGE. 

A BURNING summer sun had beaten down on the prairie for days. 
Furnace-like, the south winds came racing out of the pulsing 
haze at the far horizon. The sky seemed of copper and the 
floor-like plain's once emerald disk was tinged by the heat with grayish- 
brown. 

But one object broke the monotonous sameness of the scene, — 
a white-covered wagon, its flapping canvas top giving scant shelter to 
the emigrant and his wife crouched within. Their journey has been 
long, fever throbs in the woman's veins. 

Suddenly the man looks up, startled. Their search for a home 
is over. 

" See ! " he cries in joy. 

They have come out on the edge of a wide-reaching valley. Lines 
of dense-leaved, billowy forest, bend and sway in a gentle breeze. 
A lake with here and there a touch of foam to relieve the sparkling 
blue of the waves restlessly tosses and wrinkles its waters. Broad 
meadows suggesting clover and golden-rod are near by, and the 
undulations of the grass are like those of the lake. Yonder, along the 



158 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

beach, they catch a glimpse of dwellings — seeming palaces whose bold 
frontage awes their simple minds. 

" See ! " calls out again the glad husband, and his strong arm lifts 
the fainting wife that she may get a better view. 

Rest is there and hope and joy. The burdens of the past have been 
so great ! In the fierce race of life they have been left so far behind ; 
but now the journey over the thin-grassed prairie is almost ended — 
the haven is in sight. They can almost taste the fruits of the deep- 
foliaged trees and catch a scent of the clover and of the sea. 

Hungrily, earnestly they feast their eyes as they gaze through the 
opening in the flapping canvas. 

A passing cloud drifts suddenly before the sun. 

A cry of pain and disappointment surges to the woman's lips as she 
sees again a dreary length of plain whose level lines had so long 
fatigued her eyes. The torrid wind finds not a leaf to stir. She falls 
back on her heat-filled pillow. 

The mirage has lifted. 

The emigrant is alone on the prairie with his dead. 



HUNTING A MADMAN. 

DON'T say that you think me courageous, for that's an assertion I 
doubt, 
I did what I thought was my duty, and it's nought to go boasting 
about. 
I will tell you the truth of the story, and I think you will easily see 
There is nothing about the achievement to give any honor to me. 

I was up at my station one morning, attending to trains as they came, 
And as I was crossing the line, sir, I heard some one call me by name; 
I turned and beheld an old schoolmate, who was up on the platform 

behind, 
Who said he was going to London with a gent who was out of his 

mind. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 159 

The madman was standing beside him, as quiet and meek as could be, 
He looked quite as sane as his keeper, as he courteously nodded to me; 
And my friend said at times he was harmless, whilst at others his fury 

was such 
That a person unused to such people would be just like a child in his 

clutch. 

Then a down train ran into the station, and I had to cross over the line, 
But when it had gone I returned, sir, when I saw that old schoolmate 

of mine 
Fall, struck by the hand of the madman. I took in the scene at a glance, 
As the madman leaped on to the rails, sir, to make the best use of his 

chance. 

I thought it was right to pursue him, so I went for him just like a shot, 
For I feared what would happen to him, sir, if into the tunnel he got. 
On he went, without halting an instant, right into the darkness and 

gloom, 
While I ran like the wind, sir, to save him from meeting a horrible doom. 

The up train was due in a minute — how I hoped I might reach him 

ere then ! 
Then the thought of his strength burst upon me, for I'm not the 

strongest of men ; 
Still, I wouldn't go back, I would risk it, and put up with a bit of a strife, 
If I could but reach him and keep him from foolishly losing his life. 

Directly I entered the tunnel I was caught in a terrible grip, 

And I lost all hope as my captor clutched my throat in a vise-like nip. 

Yet I struggled as well as I could, sir, and I managed to loosen his 

clasp, 
But he flew at me then like a tiger, and again I was tight in his grasp. 

I heard the loud screech of the engine as the up train came dashing 
along, 



160 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

And I fought with my foe like a trooper, but the madman was terribly 
strong. 

Down, down, I was forced to the ground, sir, and my heart was begin- 
ning to quail, 

While the lunatic grinned as he held me on the dangerous up line of rail. 

I could see the red light of the engine as it shone through the thick, 

murky gloom ; 
Along came the train, and I shuddered as I thought of our terrible doom. 
All at once the man noticed the light, sir, and I fancied his grasp grew 

slack, 
So, exerting myself, I sprang upwards, and set him right on to his back. 

I had thrown him quite clear of the metals, and I quickly avoided the 

train, 
Ere it swiftly rushed over the spot, sir, where a moment ago I had lain. 
How thankful I felt you may guess, sir, my peril had not been in vain, 
For in less than two minutes the madman was safe with his keeper again. 

John F. Nicholls. 

THE DRUMMER=BOY. 

ONE cold December morning, about eighty years ago, a party of 
tourists were crossing the Alps — and a pretty large party, too, 
for there were several thousand of them together. Some were 
riding, some walking, and most of them had knapsacks on their 
shoulders, like many Alpine tourists now-a-days. But instead of 
walking-sticks, they carried muskets and bayonets, and dragged along 
with them some fifty or sixty cannon. 

In fact these tourists were nothing less than a French army, and 
a very hard time of it they seemed to be having. Trying work, 
certainly, even for the strongest man, to make four miles through knee- 
deep snow in this bitter frost and bitter wind, along these narrow, 
slippery mountain paths, with precipices hundreds of feet deep all round. 
The soldiers looked thin and heavy-eyed for want of food and sleep, 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 161 

and the poor horses that were dragging the heavy guns stumbled at 
every step. 

But there was one among them who seemed quite to enjoy the rough 
marching and tramping along through the deep snow and cold gray 
mist, through which the great mountain peaks overhead loomed like 
shadowy giants, as merrily as if he were going to a picnic. This was 
a little drummer-boy ten years old, whose fresh, rosy face looked 
very bright and pretty among the grim, scarred visages of the old 
soldiers. When the cutting wind whirled a shower of snow in his face 
he dashed it away with a cheery laugh, and awoke all the echoes with 
a lively rattle of his drum, till it seemed as if the huge black rocks 
around were all singing in chorus. 

" Bravo, petit tambour ! " (little drummer) cried a tall man in a shabby 
gray cloak, who was marching at the head of the line with a long pole 
in his hand, and striking it into the snow every now and then to see 
how deep it was. "Bravo, Pierre, my boy ! With such music as that 
one could march all the way to Moscow." 

The boy smiled and raised his hand to his cap in his salute, for this 
rough looking man was no other than the General himself, "Fighting 
Macdonald," one of the bravest soldiers in France, of whom his men 
used to say that one sight of his face in battle was worth a whole 
regiment. " Long live our General ! " shouted a hoarse voice ; and 
the cheer flying from mouth to mouth, rolled along the silent moun- 
tains like a peal of distant thunder. 

But its echo had hardly died away when the silence was again 
broken by another sound of a very different kind, — a strange, uncanny 
sort of whispering far away up the great white mountain side. 
Moment by moment it grew louder and harsher, till at length it swelled 
into a deep, hoarse roar. 

"On your faces, lads ! " roared the General ; "it's an avalanche !" 

But before the men had time to obey, the ruin was upon them. 
Down thundered the great mass of snow, sweeping the narrow ledge- 
path like a water-fall, and crashing down along with it came heaps of 
stone and gravel and loose, up-rooted bushes, and great blocks of cold, 
11 



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164 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

And the General kept his word. Years later, when the great wars 
were all over, there might be seen walking in the garden of a quiet 
country house in the south of France a stooping, white-haired old 
man, who had once been the famous Marshal Macdonald; and he 
leaned for support upon the arm of a tall, black-moustached, soldier- 
like fellow, who had once been little Pierre, the drummer. 



JOHN MAYNARD. 

[Read with full, round tones. L,et the manner indicate admiration of the hero. 
The figures refer to corresponding numbers in Part I.] 

) /nrAWAS on Lake Erie's broad expanse, 2 
1 One bright midsummer day, 

The gallant steamer Ocean Queen 
Swept proudly on her way. 
Bright faces clustered on the deck, 

Or learning o'er the side, 
Watched 9 carelessly the feathery foam, 
That flecked the rippling tide. 

Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky, 

That smiling bends serene, 
Could dream 11 that danger, awful, vast, 

Impended o'er the scene — 
Could dream that ere an hour had sped, 

That frame of sturdy oak 
Would sink 4 beneath the lake's blue waves, 

Blackened with fire and smoke ? 

A seaman sought the captain's side, 

A moment 11 whispered low; 
The captain's swarthy face grew pale, 

He hurried down below. 
Alas, too late ! Though quick and sharp 

And clear his orders came, 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 165 

No human efforts 4 could avail 
To quench the insidious flame. 

The bad news quickly reached the deck, 

It sped 3 from lip to lip, 
And ghastly 17 faces everywhere 
Looked from the doomed ship. 
"Is there no hope 19 — no chance of life?" 

A hundred lips implore ; 
" But one," the captain made reply, 
"To run the ship 2 on shore." 

A sailor, whose heroic soul 

That hour should yet reveal — 
By name John Maynard, eastern born — 
Stood calmly 2 at the wheel. 
"Head her southeast!" the captain shouts, 

Above the smothered roar, 
" Head her southeast without delay ! 
Make for the nearest shore ! " 

No terror 4 pales the helmsman's cheek, 

Or clouds his dauntless eye, 
As in a sailor's measured tone 

His voice responds, "Ay, Ay ! " 
Three hundred souls — the steamer's freight — 

Crowd forward wild with fear, 
While at the stern 9 the dreadful flames 

Above the deck appear. _ 

John Maynard watched 24 the nearing flames, 

But still, with steady hand 
He grasped the wheel, 14 and steadfastly 
He steered the ship to land. 
"John Maynard," with an anxious voice, 






166 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

The captain cries once more, 
" Stand by the wheel five minutes yet, 

And we will reach the shore." 
Through flames and smoke that dauntless heart 

Responded firmly, still 
Unawed, though face to face 22 with death, 

"With God's good help I will !" 

The flames approach with giant strides, 

They scorch his hands and brow ; 
One arm disabled seeks his side 

Ah, he is conquered now ! 20 
But no, 14 his teeth are firmly set, 

He crushes down the pain — 
His knee upon the stanchion pressed, 

He guides 2 the ship again. 

One moment yet ! one moment yet ! 

Brave heart, thy task is o'er ! 
The pebbles grate beneath the keel, 

The steamer touches shore. 
Three hundred grateful 16 voices rise, 

In praise to God, that He 
Hath saved them from the fearful fire, 

And from the ingulfing sea. 

But where is he, that helmsman bold? 

The captain saw 9 him reel — 
His nerveless hands released their task, 

He sunk beside the wheel. 
The wave received 7 his lifeless corpse, 

Blackened with smoke and fire. 
God rest him ! 21 Hero never had 

A nobler 16 funeral pyre! 

Horatio Alger, Jr. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 167 

A RACE FOR LIFE. 

BROAD over the grisly canon the noontide hot and red, 
And the sunbeams smote like javelins through the pine boughs 
overhead, 
And all the valley far away 
A-quiver and scorching breathless lay. 

Twining out from the unsunned forests, a serpent huge and strong, 
The railway rough and unballasted in the half-shade stretched along, 
Creeping on as if led of conscious wiles 
To the unbridged canon's dark defiles. 

A rude, rough station under the trees with groups of unkempt men ; 
And with throbs of pent-up power, which chafed for vent again, 
Two powerful engines, burnished bright, 
Stood panting in the sultry light. 

Rex Pread with a startled gesture flashed round in the station-door 
For he heard through the talk and laughter the jar and gathering roar 
Of moving wheels ; and hark ! that shout — 
"Tom Ainsworth's engine is lighting out !" 

With a blaze as of summer lightning Rex saw — and his heart stood 

still- 
That long down grade to th' canon, the "wild engine" rushing at will 
The trestle spanning the gorge below 
And the workmen swarming to and fro. 

With a leap like a startled panther, through the loafers dazed and pale, 
He was facing Jim, his fireman, with hand on the tender's rail: 
"Now fire her, Jim ! we must stop her, man ; 
Give her all she'll bear! Yes, sir, we can ! " 

The throttle valve's wide open, the road is clear before ; 
Jim flung, with the strength of a demon, pine knots through the blaz- 
ing door; 



--=^- 



168 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

And the engine leaps like a blooded steed, 
Shaking out her strength for the fearful need. 

Away with the rush of the cyclone or a madman's leap to death; 
And he stood with his hands on the lever, with set teeth and bated 

breath. 
Are they gaining ? Not yet ; ah, now 
Their breathless plunge is yet too slow ! 

" Drive for her, Jim ! " he thundered, and he hurled the pitch pine in, 
And she leaped and reeled and panted like a mad thing in the din. 
She's gaining now ! Oh, yes, that's clear ! 
But look — the canon ! that's too near! 



" Fling on your oil, man, and your resin ! " he called through his white 

set teeth ; 
And he groaned at the thought of the trestle, and the workmen thick 

beneath. 
The red flames curled, and with wilder sway 
The engine leaped on her dizzy way. 

They're gaining now! Yes, grandly! and the gap is narrowing fast; 
The nerves' sharp test is the trial or death will soon be past. 
"Here, Jim, that's enough; here's a job for you — 
Stand here by the lever and put her through ! " 

Great heaven ! Rex out on the engine where a squirrel would scarce 

dare go ! 
And now he stands all uninjured on the cow-catcher there below. 
With the coupling-rod he leans far out, 
And steadies Jim with a ringing shout. 

The flying pebbles sting him ; and he does not see or feel ; 
The sickening swaying swings him, but yet his nerves are steel. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 169 

With a blinding blur the trees leap past, 

And he knows the crisis has come at last. 

A wilder sway, a groan, a jar and the race with death is won ! 

His firm hand guides the coupling-bar, the bolt drops in — the feat is 

done ! 
"Now, back her, Jim ! For your life man, back! " 
And the dust rose blinding on the track. 

He's over Tom Ainsworth's tender — his hand on the lever now ; 
With engine reversed he's straining; you can hear the hot brakes 

plow, 
With plunge and dust and shriekings shrill — c 
One moment more and the train is still. 

But see the white, scared faces looking up from the gorge below, 
As they vaguely guessed the ghastly death they were not yet to know. 
Hurrah for Rex as he stands there, his strong chest heaving fast; 
With quivering lip and swimming eye, with all the danger past. 
'Twas a kingly thought and a hero's feat. 
Hurrah for Rex in his joy complete ! 

W. W. Marsh. 



THE SWAN=SONG. 

THE great old-fashioned clock struck twelve, but as yet not one of 
the boys had stirred. All were listening too intently to what 
Carl Von Weber was saying to notice the time. Around one 
of the grand pianos a group of boys was gathered. Perched on the 
top of it was a bright, merry-looking boy of fourteen. By his side sat 
a pale, delicate little fellow, with a pair of soft, dark eyes, which were 
fixed in eager attention upon Carl's face. Below, and leaning care- 
lessly upon the piano, was Rapul von Falkenstein, a dark, handsome 
boy of fifteen. 

"Pshaw!" he exclaimed, scornfully, after Carl had finished. "Is 
that all? just for a few paltry thalers and a beggarly violin, to work 



170 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

myself to death? No ! I don't think I shall trouble myself about it." 

" Oh, Raoul ! " cried Franz, the little fellow who sat by Carl, "you 
forget that it is to be the most beautiful violin in Germany, and to be 
given to us by the Empress herself. And the two hundred thalers — 
just think of that ! " and Franz's dark eyes grew bright to think what 
he could do with them. 

"Really," returned Raoul, insolently, "you don't mean to say that 
you are going to try ! Why, the last time you played you broke down 
entirely!" 

The color mounted into Franz's face, and the tears came into his 
eyes ; and Carl cried out angrily : 

" For shame ! you know very well that it was only fright that made 
Franz fail." 

"Don't mind him," he said, putting his arm around his friend's neck, 
" he is only hateful, as he always is. Let us go and see who is to be 
chosen for the concert. Come, Franz ! " 

" No, Carl," said his friend, quietly ; " I would rather stay here. 
You go and find out, and then come and tell me." 

The Empress once a year gave a prize to the school, but this year 
it was to be finer than usual, and her Majesty had sent to Herr Bach 
and requested him to choose five of his best boys, each of whom was 
to compose a piece of his own. No one was to see it until the end of 
three weeks, when they were to play it at a grand concert, which the 
imperial family were to attend with the whole court. Franz was very 
anxious to be chosen, for he wanted the prize very much. He thought 
how pleased the mother would be, and he thought how hard she 
worked to give her little boy a musical education, and how many com- 
forts the thalers would buy. Oh, he would work hard for it. The 
dear mother would be so surprised. And he fell into a brown study, 
from which he was awakened by feeling a pair of strong arms around 
him, and being frantically whirled around the room, while a voice 
shouted in his ear: 

"We've got it! We're chosen — you Gottfried, Johann, old hateful 
Raoul, and I ! " 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 171 

The boys worked very hard, for there was only a short time given 
them. Franz put his whole soul into his composition, and made him- 
self almost sick over it. Raoul went about declaring, in his usual 
contemptuous manner, that he did not intend to kill himself over it, 
but secretly he worked with great industry. 

One lovely moonlight night, as he sat by his window composing, for 
the moon was so bright he could see very well, he impatiently flung 
his pen down and muttered, " There is no use ; I can never do it ; this 
will never do !" and began angrily to tear up one of the music sheets, 
when suddenly he stopped and raised his head and listened intently. 
Such a lovely melody, so soft and clear, rising and falling in the 
sweetest cadences, now growing louder and louder in a wild, passionate 
crescendo, and then dying away ! 

For a moment the boy remained silent ; then, suddenly springing to 
his feet, he cried ; 

" It is Franz ! I know it, for no one but he could write anything so 
beautiful. But it shall be mine, for it is the piece that will gain the 
prize ! Ah, Franz, I play before you, and what I play shall be " 

He stopped, and the moonlight streaming in at the window glanced 
across the room, and revealed a look of half triumph, half shame on 
his dark, haughty face. Why had he stopped ? Perhaps his guardian 
angel stood behind him, warning him against what he was about 
to do. For a moment, a fierce struggle seemed to take possession 
of the boy, between his good and his evil spirit. But, alas ! the evil 
conquered, and, sitting down, he wrote off what he had heard, aided 
by his wonderful memory ; and, after an hour, he threw down the 
piece, finished. Then, with an exulting smile, he cried, "The prize 
is mine!" and, throwing himself on the bed, he fell into a troubled 
sleep. 

The time had come at last for the great concert, and the boys were 
so excited they could hardly keep still ; even Franz, whose cheeks 
glowed with a brilliant hectic flush, and whose eyes were strangely 
bright. The hall was crowded. The imperial family was there, 
together with the whole court. 



172 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

The concert began with an overture from the orchestra. Then 
came Fraulein, the prima donna of the Imperial Opera, and then the 
boys. Carl came first, and played a brilliant, sparkling little piece, 
and was loudly applauded; next Gottfried and Johann, and then 
Raoul. When he stepped out upon the platform, his handsome face 
and fine form seemed to make an impression on the audience, for they 
remained perfectly silent. Raoul commenced. At first Franz paid 
no attention to him, then suddenly he started. The melody flowed 
on; louder and louder, clearer and clearer it rose. Franz stood 
motionless, listening in strained, fixed attention, until at last, over- 
come with grief and astonishment, he sank upon the floor and cried 
out piteously, with tears streaming down his face : 

" Oh, Raoul ! Raoul ! how could you, could you do it — my own 
little piece that I loved so much? Oh, mother! mother !"— and, 
burying his head in his arms, he sobbed in an agony of grief. 

He heard the burst of applause that greeted his piece — not Raoul's; 
he heard it all, but moved not until he heard Carl say : 

" Come, Franz ! it's time to go. They are all waiting for you ; but 
I am fraid that Raoul has won the prize." 

What should he do, he wondered ? And then he thought perhaps 
the kind Father in heaven would help him. So, breathing a little 
prayer in his heart, he walked calmly forth upon the platform. 

At first, he trembled so that he could hardly begin ; then a sudden 
inspiration seemed to come to him — a quick light swept across his 
face. He raised the violin to his shoulder and began. 

The audience at first paid no attention ; but presently all became 
quiet, and they leaned forward in breathless attention. What a won- 
derful song it was ! — for it was a song. The violin seemed almost to 
speak, and so softly and sweetly and with such exquisite pathos were 
the notes drawn forth that the eyes of many were filled with tears. 
For it was pouring out all little Franz's griefs and sorrows ; it was 
telling how the little heart was almost broken by the treachery of the 
friend ; it was telling how hard he had worked to win, for the dear 
mother's sake ; and it was telling, and the notes grew sweeter as 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 173 

it told, how the good God had not forsaken him. The boy- 
seemed almost inspired; his eyes were raised to heaven, and his 
face glowed with a rapid delight, as he improvised his beautiful 
song. Not a sound was heard ; it seemed as if all were turned 
to stone, so intense was the silence. His heart seemed to grow 
lighter of its burden, and the song burst into a wild, sweet carol, 
that rang rich and clear through the hall ; and then it changed 
and grew so soft it could hardly be heard, and at last it died 
away. 

For a moment the vast audience seemed spell-bound ; then, all ris- 
ing with one uncontrollable impulse, and breaking into a tempest of 
applause that rocked the building to its very foundations, they rained 
down boquets on his head. 

But the boy stood with a far-off look in his large and beautiful eyes, 
and then, giving a little sigh, fell heavily to the floor. 

When he returned to consciousness, he heard a voice say, " Poor 
child !" It seemed like Herr Bach's ; and then he heard Carl say, in 
a sobbing voice, "Franz! dear Franz !" Why did they pity him, he 
wondered ; and then it all came back to him — the prize, the violin and 
Raoul. 

" Where is the violin ?" he murmured. 

" It will be here in a moment," some one said. 

Then he saw the pale, remorseful face of Raoul, who said : " Dear 
little Franz, forgive me!" 

The boy raised his hand and pointed to heaven, and said softly : 
" Dear Raoul, I forgive you !" — and then all the pain and bitterness in 
his heart against Raoul died out. 

The sweet face of the Empress, made lovely by its look of tender 
pity, bent over him, and she kissed him and murmured, " Poor little 
one!" Then she placed the beautiful violin in his arms, and the 
thalers in his hands. 

And so, with the famed violin and bright thalers clasped on his 
breast, the life-light died out of his eyes, and little Franz fell asleep. 

Katharine Ritter Brooks. 



I'*»W" 



174 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 



;rp 



A ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

IS over a hundred years ago 

Since the day the Count De Rochenbo — 
Our ally against the British crown, 
Met Washington in Newport town. 



Twas the month of March and the air was chill, 

But bareheaded over Aquiduck Hill, 

Guest and host, they took their way, 

While on either side in grand display, 

A gallant army, French arid fine, 

Were ranged three deep in a glittering line; 

And the French fleet sent a welcome roar 

Of a hundred guns from Conanicut shore. 

And the bells rang out from every steeple, 
And from street to street the Newport people 
Followed and cheered with a hearty zest 
De Rochenbo and his honored guest. 

And out of the windows women leant, 
And out of the windows smiled and sent 
Many a coy, admiring glance 
At the gay, young officers of France. 

And the story goes that the belle of the town 
Kissed a rose and flung it down 
Straight at the feet of De Rochenbo ; 
And the gallant marshal, bending low, 
Picked it up with a Frenchman's grace, 
Kissed it back with a glance at the face 
Of the daring maiden, where she stood 
Blushing out of her silken hood. 

That night at the ball, still the story goes, 
The marshal of France wore a faded rose 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 175 

In his gold-laced coat. But he looked in vain 
For the giver's beautiful face again. 

Night after night, day after day, 
The Frenchman eagerly sought, they say, 
At church or at ball, or along the street, 
For the girl who flung her rose at his feet. 

And she, night after night and day after day, 
Was sailing farther and farther away 
From the window, where her passionate heart 
Had sudden felt love's piercing dart. 

For her jealous father's watchful eyes 
Had noted all in dismayed surprise 
From the street below, and taking the gauge 
Of a woman's heart, in a moment's rage, 
He swore, this old colonial squire, 
That before the daylight should expire, 
This daughter of his with her wit and grace, 
With her dangerous heart and beautiful face, 
Should be on her way to a sure retreat, 
Where no rose of hers should fall at the feet 
Of a cursed Frenchman, high or low. 
And so, while the Count De Rochenbo, 
In his gold-laced coat wore a faded flower, 
And waited the giver, hour by hour, 
She was sailing away in the wild March night, 
On the deck of the little sloop " Delight," 
Guarded well in the darkness there 
By .the watchful eyes of a jealous care. 

Three weeks later a brig bore down 
Into the harbor cf Portsmouth town, 
Towing a wreck. 'Twas the sloop " Delight " 
Off Hampton Roads. In the very sight 



^s=- 



176 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Of the land she wrecked, she and her crew ; 
And all on board of her, full in view 
Of the storm-bound fishermen over the bay, 
Went down to their doom on that April day. 

When De Rochenbo heard the terrible tale, 

He muttered an oath, for a moment grew pale, 

Then " Mon Dieu !" he exclaimed, " So my fine romance 

Was from beginning to end a rose and a glance." 

So the sad old story comes to a close. 

'Tis a century since, but the story goes 

On the same base round ; still takes the gauge 

Of its highest hearts in a moment's rage. 



THE ENGINEER'S STORY. 

[Let this spirited selection be read at a rather rapid rate and with intensity of 

expression.] 

NO, children, my trips are over, 
The engineer needs rest ; 
My hand is shaky; I'm feeling 
A tugging pain i' my breast ; 
But here, as the twilight gathers, 
I'll tell you a tale of the road, 
That'll wring in my head forever, 
Till it rests beneath the sod. 

We were lumbering along in the twilight, 

The night was dropping her shade, 
And the "Gladiator" labored — 

Climbing the top of the grade ; 
The train was heavily laden, 

So I let my engine rest, 
Climbing the grading slowly, 

Till we reached the upland's crest. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 177 

I held my watch to the lamplight — 

Ten minutes behind the time ! 
Lost in the slackened motion 

Of the up-grade's heavy climb ; 
But I knew the miles of the prairie 

That stretched a level track, 
So I touched the guage of the boiler 

And pulled the lever back. 

Over the rails a-gleaming, 

Thirty an hour, or so, 
The engine leaped like a demon, 

Breathing a fiery glow ; 
But to me — ahold of the lever — 

It seemed a child alway, 
Trustful and always ready 

My lightest touch to obey. 

I was proud, you know, of my engine, 

Holding it steady that night, 
And my eye on the track before us, 

Ablaze with the Drummond light. 
We neared a well-known cabin, 

Where a child of three or four, 
As the up train passed, oft called me, 

A playing around the door. 

My hand was firm on the throttle 

As we swept around the curve, 
When something afar in the shadow, 

Struck fire through every nerve. 
I sounded the brakes, and crashing 

The reverse lever down in dismay, 
Groaning to Heaven — eighty paces 

Ahead was the child at its play ! 
12 



-» '■^? ^= 



p. 



178 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

One instant — one, awful and only, 

The world flew round in my brain, 
And I smote my hand hard on my forehead 

To keep back the terrible pain ; 
The train I thought flying forever, 

With mad irresistible roll, 
While the cries of the dying, the night wind 

Swept into my shuddering soul. 

Then I stood on the front of the engine — 

How I got there I never could tell — 
My feet planted down on the crossbar, 

Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail, 
One hand firmly locked on the coupler, 

And one held out in the night, 
While my eye guaged the distance and measured, 

The speed of our slackening flight. 

My mind, thank the Lord ! it was steady ; 

I saw the curls of her hair, 
And the face that, turning in wonder, 

Was lit by the deadly glare. 
I know little more — but I heard it — 

The groan of the anguished wheels, 
And remember thinking — the engine 

In agony trembles and reels. 

One rod ! To the day of my dying 

I shall think the old engine reared back, 
And as it recoiled, with a shudder 

I swept my hand over the track ; 
Then darkness fell over my eyelids, 

But I heard the surge of the train, 
And the poor old engine creaking, 

As racked by a deadly pain. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 179 

They found us, they said, on the gravel, 

My fingers enmeshed in her hair, 
And she on my bosom a-climbing, 

To nestle securely there. 
We are not much given to crying — 

We men that run on the road — 
But that night, they said, there were faces, 

With tears on them, lifted to God. 

For years in the eve and the morning 

As I neared the cabin again, 
My hand on the lever pressed downward 

And slackened the speed of the train. 
When my engine had blown her a greeting, 

She always would come to the door ; 
And her look with a fullness of heaven 

Now blesses me evermore. 



JOHNNY BARTHOLOMEW. 

THE journals this morning are full of a tale 
Of a terrible ride through a tunnel by rail ; 
And people are called on to note and admire 
How a hundred or more, through the smoke-cloud and fire, 
Were borne from all peril to limbs and to lives — 
Mothers saved to their children, and husbands to wives, 
But of him v/ho performed such a notable deed 
Quite little the journalist gives us to read. 
In truth, of this hero so plucky and bold, 
There is nothing except, in few syllables told, 
His name, which is Johnny Bartholomew. 

Away in Nevada — they don't tell us where, 
Nor does it much matter — a railway is there, 



180 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Which winds in and out through the cloven ravines, 
With glimpses at times of the wildest of scenes — 
Now passing a bridge seeming fine as a thread, 
Now shooting past cliffs that impend o'er the head, 
Now plunging some black-throated tunnel within, 
Whose darkness is roused at the clatter and din ; 
And ran every day with its train o'er the road, 
An engine that steadily dragged on its load, 
And was driven by Johnny Bartholomew. 

With throttle-valve down, he was slowing the train, 
While the sparks fell around and behind him like rain, 
As he came to a spot where a curve to the right 
Brought the black, yawning mouth of a tunnel in sight, 
And peering ahead with a far-seeing ken, 
Felt a quick sense of danger come over him then. 
Was a train on the track ? No ! A peril as dire — 
The further extreme of the tunnel on fire ! 
And the volume of smoke as it gathered and rolled, 
Shook fearful dismay from each dun-colored fold, 
But daunted not Johnny Bartholomew. 

Beat faster his heart, though its current stood still, 
And his nerves felt a jar but no tremulous thrill ; 
And his eyes keenly gleamed through their partly closed lashes, 
And his lips — not with fear — took the color of ashes. 
" If we falter, these people behind us are dead ! 
So close the doors, fireman — we'll send her ahead ! 
Crowd on the steam till she rattles and swings ! 
Open the throttle- valve ! Give her her wings !" 
Shouted he from his post in the engineer's room, 
Driving onward perchance to a terrible doom, 
This man they call Johnny Bartholomew. 

Firm grasping the bell-rope and holding his breath, 
On, on through the Vale of the Shadow of Death, 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 181 

On, on through that horrible cavern of hell, 
Through flames that arose and through timbers that fell, 
Through the eddying smoke and the serpents of fire 
That writhed and that hissed in their anguish and ire, 
With a rush and a roar like a wild tempest's blast, 
To the free air beyond them in safety they passed ! 
While the clang of the bell and the steam pipe's shrill yell, 
Told the joy at escape from that underground hell 
Of the man they called Johnny Bartholomew. 

Did the passengers get up a service of plate ? 

Did some oily-tongued orator at the man prate ? 

Women kiss him ? Young children cling fast to his knees ? 

Stout men in their rapture his brown fingers squeeze? 

And where was he born ? Is he handsome? Has he 

A wife for his bosom, a child for his knee? 

Is he young? Is he old? Is he tall? Is he short? 

Well, ladies the journals tell naught of the sort, 

And all that they give us about him to-day, 

After telling the tale in a commonplace way, 

Is — the man's name is Johnny Bartholomew. 

Thomas Dunn English. 



THE LIFEBOAT. 

BEEN out in the lifeboat often ? Ay, ay, sir, oft enough. 
When it's rougher than this ? Lor' bless you ! this ain't what 
we call rough ! 
It's when there's a gale a-blowin', and the waves run in and break 
On the shore with a roar like the thunder and the white cliffs seem to 

shake ; 
When the sea is a hell of waters, and the bravest holds his breath 
As he hears the cry for the lifeboat — his summons may be to death — 
That's when we call it rough, sir ; but, if we can get her afloat, 
There's always enough brave fellows ready to man the boat. 






" 



182 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

You've heard of the Royal Helen, the ship as was wrecked last year? 
Yon be the rock she struck on — the boat as went out be here ; 
The night as she struck was reckoned the worst as ever we had, 
And this is a coast in winter where the weather be awful bad, 
The beach here was strewed with wreckage, and to tell you the truth, 

sir, then 
Was the only time as ever we'd a bother to get the men. 
The single chaps was willin', and six on 'em volunteered, j 

But most on us here is married, and the wives that night was skeered. 

Our women ain't chicken-hearted when it comes to savin' lives, 
But death that night looked certain — and our wives be only wives ; 
Their lot ain't bright at the best, sir ; but here, when the man lies dead, 
'Tain't only a husband missin', it's the children's daily bread; 
So our women began to whimper and beg o' the chaps to stay — 
I only heard on it after, for that night I was kept away. 
I was up at my cottage, yonder, where the wife lay nigh her end, 
She'd been ailin' all the winter, and nothin' 'ud make her mend. 

The doctor had given her up, sir, and I knelt by her side and prayed, 
With my eyes as red as a babby's, that Death's hand might yet be 

stayed. 
I heered the wild wind howlin', and I looked on the wasted form 
And thought of the awful shipwreck as had come in the ragin' storm; 
The wreck of my little homestead — the wreck of my dear old wife, 
Who'd sailed with me forty years, sir, o'er the troublous waves of life, 
And I looked at the eyes so sunken, as had been my harbor lights, 
To tell of the sweet home haven in the wildest, darkest nights. 

She knew she was sinkin' quickly — she knew as her end was nigh, 
But she never spoke o' the troubles as I knew on her heart must lie, 
For we'd had one great big sorrow with Jack, our only son — 
He'd got into trouble in London, as lots o' the lads ha' done ; 
Then he'd bolted, his masters told us — he was alius what folk 
call wild. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 183 

From the day as I told his mother, her dear face never smiled. 
We heerd no more about him, we never knew where he went, 
And his mother pined and sickened for the message he never sent. 

I had my work to think of; but she had her grief to nurse, 

So it eat away at her heartstrings, and her health grew worse and 

worse; 
And the night as the Royal Helen went down on yonder sands, 
I sat and watched her dyin', holdin' her wasted hands. 
She moved in her doze a little, then her eyes were opened wide, 
And she seemed to be seekin' somethin', as she looked from side to 

side; 
Then half to herself she whispered, "Where's Jack, to say good-by? 
It's hard not to see my darlin', and kiss him afore I die!" 

I was stoopin' to kiss and soothe her, while the tears ran down my 

cheek, 
And my lips were shaped to whisper the words I couldn't speak, 
When the door of the room burst open, and my mates were there 

outside 
With the news that the boat was launchin'. " Your'e wanted!" their 

leader cried. 
" You've never refused to go, John ; you'll put these cowards right. 
There's a dozen of lives maybe, John, as lie in our hands to-night." 
'Twas old Ben Brown, the captain ; he'd laughed at the women's 

doubt. 
We'd always been first on the beach, sir, when the boat was goin' ou f 

I didn't move, but I pointed to the white face on the bed — 

" I can't go, mate," I murmured ; " in an hour she may be dead. 

I cannot go and leave her to die in the night alone." 

As I spoke Ben raised his lantern, and the light on my wife was 

thrown ; 
And I saw her eyes fixed strangely with a pleading look on me, 
While a tremblin' finger pointed through the door to the ragin' sea. 



184 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Then she beckoned me near, and whispered, " Go, and God's will be 

done! 
For every lad on that ship, John, is some poor mother's son." 

Her head was full of the boy, sir — she was thinking, maybe, some day 
For lack of a hand to help him his life might be cast away. 
" Go, John, and the Lord watch o'er you ; and spare me to see the light, 
And bring you safe," she whispered, " out of the storm to-night." 
Then I turned and kissed her softly, and tried to hide my tears, 
And my mates outside, when they saw me, set up three hearty cheers ; 
But I rubbed my eyes wi' my knuckles, and turned to old Ben and said, 
" I'll see her again, maybe, lad, when the sea gives up its dead." 

We launched the boat in the tempest, though death was the goal in 

view, 
And never a one but doubted if the craft could live it through ; 
But our boat she stood it bravely, and weary and wet and weak 
We drew in hail of the vessel we had dared so much to seek, 
But just as we come upon her she gave a fearful roll, 
And went down in the seethin' whirlpool with every livin' soul ! 
We rowed for the spot, and shouted, for all around was dark — 
But only the wild wind answered the cries from our plungin' bark. 

I was strainin' my eyes and watchin', when I thought I heard a cry, 

And I saw past our bows a somethin' on the crest of a wave dashed by ; 

I stretched out my hand to seize it. I dragged it aboard, and then 

I stumbled, and struck my forrud, and fell like a log on Ben. 

I remember a hum of voices, and then I knowed no more, 

Till I came to my senses here, sir — here, in my home ashore. 

My forrud was tightly bandaged, and I lay on my little bed — 

I'd slipped, so they told me arter, and a rulluck had struck my head. 

Then my mates came in and whispered ; they'd heard I was comin' 

round. 
At first I could scarcely hear 'em, it seemed like a buzzin' sound; 




ELLEN TERRY. 



SHE NEVER TOLD HER LOVE, 
BUT LET CONCEALMENT, LIKE A WORM l> YHE BUD 
FEED ON HER DAMASK CHEEK. 

VIOLA. 







HENRY IRVING. 



WHY, LOOK YOU, HOW YOU STORM? 
! WOULD BE FRIENDS WITH YOU, AND HAVE YOUR LOVE. 

SHYIOCK. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 185 

But as soon as my head got clearer and accustomed to hear 'em speak, 
I knew as I'd lain like that, sir, for many a long, long week. 
I guessed what the lads was hidin', for their poor old shipmate's sake 
I could see by their puzzled faces they'd got some news to break ; 
So I lifts my head from the pillow, and I says to old Ben, " Look here! 
I'm able to bear it now, lad — tell me, and never fear." 

Not one on 'em ever answered, but presently Ben goes out, 
And the others slinks away like, and I says, " What's this about ? 
*Why can't they tell me plainly as the poor old wife is dead !" 
Then I fell again on the pillows, and I hid my achin' head ; 
I lay like that for a minute, till I heard a voice cry " John !" 
And I thought it must be a vision as my weak eyes gazed upon ; 
For there by the bedside, standin' up and well was my wife. 
And who do ye think was with her ? Why, Jack, as large as life. 

It was him as I'd saved from drownin' the night as the lifeboat went 
To the wreck of the Royal Helen ; 'twas that as the vision meant. 
They'd brought us ashore together, he'd knelt by his mother's bed, 
And the sudden joy had raised her like a miracle from the dead ; 
And mother and son together had nursed me back to life, 
And my old eyes woke from darkness to look on my son and wife. 
Jack? He's our right hand now, sir; 'twas Providence pulled him 

through- — 
He's alius the first aboard her when the lifeboat wants a crew. 

George R. Sims. 

THE SPANISH MOTHER. 

[Supposed to be related by a veteran French officer.] 

YES ! I have served that noble chief throughout his proud career, 
And heard the bullets whistle past in lands both far and near — 
Amidst Italian Flowers, below the dark pines of the north, 
Where'er the Emperor willed to pour his clouds of battle forth. 

'Twas then a splendid sight to see, though terrible, I ween, 
How his vast spirit filled and moved the wheels of the machine; 



186 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Wide sounding leagues of sentient steel, and fires that lived to kill, 
Were but the echo of his voice, the body of his will. 

But now my heart is darkened with the shadows that rise and fall 
Between the sunlight and the ground to sadden and appall : 
The woeful things both seen and done we heeded little then, 
But they return, like ghosts, to shake the sleep of aged men. 

The German and the Englishman were each an open foe, 

An open hatred hurled us back from Russia's blinding snow ; 

Intenser far, in blood-red light, like fires unquenched, remain 

The dreadful deeds wrung forth by war from the brooding soul of Spain. 

I saw a village in the hills, as silent as a dream, 
Naught stirring but the summer sound of a merry mountain stream ; 
The evening star just smiled from heaven with its quiet silver eye, 
And the chestnut woods were still and calm beneath the deepening sky. 

But in that place, self-sacrificed, nor man nor beast we found, 
Nor fig-tree on the sun-touched slope, nor corn upon the ground ; 
Each roofless hut was black with smoke, wrenched up each trailing vine, 
Each path was foul with mangled meat and floods of wasted wine. 

We had been marching, travel-worn, a long and burning way, 
And when such welcoming we met, after that toilsome day, 
The pulses in our maddened breasts were human hearts no more, 
But, like the spirit of a wolf, hot on the scent of gore. 

We lighted on one dying man, they slew him where he lay; 
His wife, close-clinging, from the corpse they tore and wrenched away ; 
They thundered in her widowed ears, with frowns and curses grim, 
"Food, woman — food and wine, or else we tear thee limb from limb." 

The woman, shaking off his blood, rose, raven-haired and tall, 
And our stern glances quailed before one sterner far than all. 
"Both food and wine," she said, "I have; I meant them for the dead, 
But ye are living still, and so let them be yours instead." 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 187 

The food was brought, the wine was brought out of a secret place, 
But each one paused aghast, and looked into his neighbor's face ; 
Her haughty step and settled brow, and chill indifferent mien, 
Suited so strangely with the gloom and grimness of the scene. 

She glided here, she glided there, before our wondering eyes, 
Nor anger showed, nor shame, nor fear, nor sorrow, nor surprise ; 
At every step, from soul to soul a nameless horror ran, 
And made us pale and silent as that silent murdered man. 

She sat, and calmly soothed her child into a slumber sweet ; 
Calmly the bright blood on the floor crawled red around our feet. 
On placid fruits and bread lay soft the shadows of the wine, 
And we like marble statues glared — a chill, unmoving line. 

All white, all cold ; and moments thus flew by without a breath, 
A company of living things where all was still — but death ; 
My hair rose up from roots of ice as there unnerved I stood 
And watched the only thing that stirred — the rippling of the blood. 

The woman's voice was heard at length, it broke the solemn spell, 

And human fear, displacing awe, upon our spirits fell — 

" Ho ! slayers of the sinewless ! Ho ! tramplers of the weak ! 

What ! shrink ye from the ghastly meats and life-bought wine ye seek ? 

"Feed, and begone ! I wish to weep — I bring you out my store — 
Devour it — waste it all — and then — pass and be seen no more. 
Poison ! Is that your craven fear? " She snatched the goblet up, 
And raised it to her queen-like head, as if to drain the cup. 

But our fierce leader grasped her wrist — " No, woman ! no ! " he said, 
"A mother's heart of love is deep — give it your child instead." 
She only smiled a bitter smile — " Frenchmen, I do not shrink — 
As pledge of my fidelity, behold the infant drink !" 

He fixed on hers his broad black eye, scanning her inmost soul ; 
But her chill fingers trembled not as she returned the bowl. 



188 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

And we with lightsome hardihood, dismissing idle care, 
Sat down to eat and drink and laugh over our dainty fare. 

The laugh was loud around the board, the jesting wild and light; 
But / was fevered with the march, and drank no wine that night ; 
I just had filled a single cup, when through my very brain 
Stung, sharper than a serpent's tooth, an infant's cry of pain. 

Through all that heat of revelry, through ail that boisterous cheer, 
To every heart its feeble moan pierced, like a frozen spear. 
"Aye," shrieked the woman, darting up, " I pray you trust again 
A widow's hospitality in our unyielding Spain. 

" Helpless and hopeless, by the light of God Himself I swore 
To treat you as you treated him — that body on the floor. 
Yon secret place I filled, to feel, that if ye did not spare, 
The treasure of a dread revenge was ready hidden there. 

"A mother's love is deep, no doubt ; ye did not phrase it ill, 

But in your hunger ye forgot that hate is deeper still. 

The Spanish woman speaks for Spain ; for her butchered love, the wife, 

To tell you that an hour is all my vintage leaves of life." 

I cannot paint the many forms of wild despair put on, 

Nor count the crowded brave who sleep beneath a single stone ; 

I can but tell you how, before that horrid hour went by, 

I saw the murderess beneath the self-avengers die. 

But though upon her wretched limbs they leaped like beasts of prey, 
And with fierce hands, like madmen, tore the quivering life away — 
Triumphant hate and joyous scorn, without a trace of pain, 
Burned to the last, like sullen stars, in that haughty eye of Spain. 

And often now it breaks my rest, the tumult vague and wild, 
Drifting, like storm-tossed clouds, around the mother and her child — 
While she, distinct in raiment white, stands silently the while, 
And sheds through torn and bleeding hair the same unchanging smile. 

Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND. DRAMATIC READINGS. 189 

IN THE SIGNAL BOX. 

[A station master's thrilling story.] 

YES, it's a quiet station, but it suits me well enough ; 
I want a bit of the smooth now, for I've had my share o' rough. 
This berth that the company gave me they gave as the work 
was light; 
I was never fit for the signals after one awful night. 
I'd been in the box from a youngster, and I never felt the strain * 

Of the lives at my right hand's mercy in every passing train. 
One day there was something happened, and it made my nerves go 

queer, 
And it's all through that as you find me the station master here. 

I was on the box down yonder — that's where we turn the mails, 

And specials, and fast expresses on to the centre rails ; 

The side's for the other traffic — the luggage and local slows ; 

It was rare hard work at Christmas when double the traffic grows. 

I've been in the box down yonder nigh sixteen hours a day, 

Till my eyes grew dim and heavy, and my thoughts were all astray ; 

But I've worked the points half sleeping — and once I slept outright, 

Till the roar of the limited woke me, and I nearly died with fright. 

Then I thought of the lives in peril and what might have been their fate 

Had I sprung to the points that evening a tenth of a tick too late ; 

And a cold and ghastly shiver ran icily through my frame 

As I fancied the public clamor, the trial and bitter shame. 

I could see the bloody wreckage — I could see the mangled slain — 

And the picture was seared forever, blood-red, on my heated brain. 

That moment my nerve was shattered, for I couldn't shut out the 

thought 
Of the lives I held in my keeping and the ruin that might be wrought. 

That night in our little cottage, as I kissed our sleeping child, 
My wife looked up from her sewing and told me, as she smiled, 



190 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

That Johnny had made his mind up — he'd be a pointsman, too. 

" He says when he's big like father, he'll work in the box with you." 

I frowned, for my heart was heavy, and my wife she saw the look ; 

Why, bless you, my little Alice could read me like a book. 

I'd to tell her of what had happened, and I said that I must leave, 

For a pointsman's arm ain't trusty when terror lurks in his sleeve. 

But she cheered me in a minute, and that night, ere we went to sleep, 
She made me give her a promise which I vowed I'd always keep — 
It was ever to do my duty. "Do that and then, come what will, 
You'll have no worry," said Alice, " if things go well or ill." 

Now the very next day the missus had to go to the market town, 
She'd the Christmas things to see to, and she wanted to buy a gown ; 
She'd be gone for a spell, for the Parley didn't come back till eight, 
And I knew on a Christmas eve, too, the trains would be extra late. 
So she settled to leave me Johnny, and then she could turn the key— 
For she'd have some parcels to carry, and the boy would be safe with me. 
He was five, was our little Johnny, and quiet and nice and good — 
He was mad to go with father, and I'd often promised he should. 

It was noon when the missus started — her train went by my box — 
She could see, as she passed my window, her darling's sunny locks. 
I lifted him up to see mother, and he kissed his little hand, 
Then sat like a mouse in the corner, and thought it was fairyland. 
But somehow I fell a thinking of a scene that would not fade, 
Of how I had slept on duty, until I grew afraid ; 
For the thought would weigh upon me, one day I might come to lie 
In a felon's cell for the slaughter of those I had doomed to die. 

The fit that had come upon me like,a hideous nightmare seemed, 
Till I rubbed my eyes and started like a sleeper who has dreamed. 
For a time the box had vanished — I'd worked like a mere machine — 
My mind had been on the wander, and I'd neither heard nor seen. 
With a start I thought of Johnny, and I turned the boy to seek. 
Then I uttered a groan of anguish, for my lips refused to speak ; 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 191 

There had flashed such a scene of horror swift on my startled sight 
That it curdled my blood in terror and sent my red lips white. 

It was all in one awful minute — I saw that the boy was lost ; 

He had gone for a toy, I fancied, some child from a train had tossed ; 

The local was easing slowly to stop at the station here, 

And the limited mail was coming, and I had the line to clear. 

I could hear the roar of the engine, I could almost feel its breath, 

And right on the centre metals stood my boy in the jaws of death ; 

On came the fierce fiend, tearing straight for the centre line, 

And the hand that must wreck or save it, O merciful God ! was mine. 

'Twas a hundred lives or Johnny's. 'Twas that ! what could I do? 
Up to God's ear that moment a wild, fierce question flew — 
"What shall I do, O Heaven?" and sudden and loud and qlear 
On the wind came the words, "Your duty," borne to my listening ear. 
Then I set my teeth, and my breathing was fierce and short and quick. 
" My boy ! " I cried, but he heard not, and then I went blind and sick ; 
The hot black smoke of the engine came with a rush before, 
I turned the mail to the centre and by it flew with a roar. * 

Then I sank on my knees in horror, and hid my ashen face — 
I had given my child to heaven; his life was a hundred's grace. 
Had I held my hand a moment, I had hurled the flying mail 
To shatter the creeping local that stood on the other rail ! 
Where is my boy, my darling ? My boy ! let me hide my eyes. 
How can I look — his father — on that which there mangled lies ? 
That voice ! O merciful Heaven ! 'tis the child's, and he calls my name ! 
I hear but I cannot see him, for my eyes are filled with flame. 

I knew no more that night, sir, for I fell as I heard the boy ; 

The place reeled round, and I fainted — swooned with the sudden joy. 

But I heard on the Christmas morning, when I woke in my own warm 

bed, 
With Alice's arms around me, and a strange, wild dream in my head, 



192 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

That she'd come by the early local, being anxious about the lad, 
And had seen him there on the metals, and the sight nigh drove her 

mad — 
She had seen him just as the engine of the Limited closed my view, 
And she leaped on the line and saved him, just as the mail dashed 

through. 

She was back in the train in a second, and both were safe and sound — 
The moment they stopped at the station she ran here and I was found 
With my eyes like a madman's glaring, and my face a ghastly white ; 
I heard the boy, and I fainted, and I hadn't my wits that night. 
Who told me to do my duty? What voice was that on the wind? 
Was it fancy that brought it to me ? or were there God's lips behind ? 
If I hadn't a done my duty — had I ventured to disobey— 
My bonny boy and his mother might have died by my hand that day. 

George R. Sims. 



MEN WHO NEVER DIE. 

WE dismiss them not to the chambers of forgetfulness and death. 
What we admired, and prized, and venerated in them, can 
never be forgotten. I had almost said that they are now 
beginning to live; to live that life of unimpaired influence, of 
unclouded fame, of unmingled happiness, for which their talents and 
services were destined. Such men do not, cannot die. To be cold 
and breathless ; to feel not and speak not ; this is not the end of 
existence to the men who have breathed their spirits into the institu- 
tions of their country, who have stamped their characters on the pil- 
lars of the age, who have poured their hearts' blood into the chan- 
nels of the public prosperity. 

Tell me, ye who tread the sods of yon sacred height, is Warren 
dead ? Can you not still see him, not pale and prostrate, the blood of 
his gallant heart pouring out of his ghastly wound, but moving res- 
plendent over the field of honor, with the rose of heaven upon his 
cheek, and the fire of liberty in his eye? Tell me, ye who make your 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 193 

pious pilgrimage to the shades of Vernon, is Washington indeed shut 
up in that cold and narrow house ? That which made these men, and 
men like these, cannot die. The hand that traced the charter of 
independence is, indeed, motionless ; the eloquent lips that sustained it 
are hushed ; but the lofty spirits that conceived, resolved, and main- 
tained it, and which alone, to such men, " make it life to live," these 
cannot expire : 

" These shall resist the empire of decay- 
When time is o'er and worlds have passed away ; 
Cold in the dust the perished heart may lie, 
But that which warmed it once can never die." 

Edward Everett. 



A LAUGHING CHORUS. 

[Read in a bright, cheery manner and with a hearty laugh where called for. J 

OH, such a commotion under the ground 
When March called, " Ho, there ! ho !" 
Such spreading of rootlets far and wide ! 
Such whispering to and fro ! 
And "Are you ready? " the Snow-drop asked, 

" 'Tis time to start, you know!" 
"Almost, my dear," the Scilla replied; 

" I'll follow as soon as you go." 
Then "Ha! ha! ha!" a chorus came 

Of laughter, soft and low, 
From the millions of flowers under the ground — 
Yes, millions — beginning to grow. 

"I'll promise my blossoms," the Crocus said, 

"When I hear the bluebirds sing." 
And straight thereafter, Narcissus cried, 

"My silver and gold I'll bring." 
"And ere they are dulled," another spoke, 

"The Hyacinth bells shall ring." 
13 



194 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

And the Violet only murmured, " I'm here," 

And sweet grew the air of Spring. 
Then "Ha! ha! ha!" a chorus came 

Of laughter, soft and low, 
From the millions of flowers under the ground — 

Yes, millions — beginning to grow. 

Oh, the pretty, brave things ! through the coldest days, 
Imprisoned in walls of brown, 

They never lost heart though the blast shrieked loud, 
And the sleet and the hail came down, 

But patiently each wrought her beautiful dress, 
Or fashioned her beautiful crown ; 

And now they are coming to brighten the world, 
Still shadowed by Winter's frown ; 

And well may they cheerily laugh, "Ha! ha!'" 
In a chorus soft and low, 

The millions of flowers hid under the ground- 
Yes, millions — beginning to grow. 



WRONGS OF IRELAND. 

HEREAFTER, when these things shall be history, your age of 
thraldom and poverty, your sudden resurrection, commercial 
redress, and miraculous armament, shall the historian stop to 
declare, that here the principal men amongst us fell into mimic traces 
of gratitude : they were awed by a weak ministry, and bribed by an 
empty treasury; and when liberty was within their grasp, and the 
temple opened her folding-doors, and the arms of the people changed, 
and the zeal of the nation urged and encouraged them on, that they 
fell down, and were prostituted at the threshold. 

I will not be answered by a public lie in the shape of an amend- 
ment : neither, speaking for the subjects' freedom, am I to hear of 
faction. I wish for nothing but to breathe in this our island, in com- 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 195 

mon with my fellow-subjects, the air of liberty ; I have no ambition, 
unless it be the ambition to break your chains, and contemplate your 
glory. I never will be satisfied as long as the meanest cottager in 
Ireland has a link of British chain clanking in his rags : he may be 
naked, he shall not be in irons. And I do see the time is at hand, the 
spirit is gone forth, the declaration is planted : and though great men 
should apostatize, yet the cause will live : and though the public 
speaker should die, yet the immortal fire shall outlast the organ which 
conveyed it, and the breath of liberty, like the word of the holy man, 
shall not die with the prophet, but survive him. — Henry Grattan. 



A BALLAD OF BRAVE WOMEN. 
[Off Swansea in a storm.] 
T TTTH hiss and thunder and inner boom — 
j/SL While through the darkness the great waves loom 
And charge the rocks with the shock of doom. 

A second sea is the hurricane's blast ; 
Its viewless billows are loud and vast, 
By their strength great trees are uptorn and downcast. 

To-night falls many a goodly tree, 

As many a ship through the raging sea 

Shall go with the strange sea-things to be. 

At times, through the hurry of clouds, the moon 
Looks out aghast ; but her face right soon 
Is hidden again, and she seems to swoon. 

O, the wind waves, and oh, the sea waves, 
The gulfs of wind and the sea-gulfs for graves, 
Fast through the air how she flies and raves ; 

Raves with a magical, mad delight, 
The viewless spirit of storm and night, 
Heart of the wind, and soul of his might. 



196 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Hark to the voice which shouts from the sea, 
The voice of a dreadful revelry ! 
The unseen hunters are out, and flee 

Over the crests of the roaring deep, 

Or they climb the ways that are wild and steep, 

Or right through the heart of their light they leap. 

Roar of the wind, and roar of the waves, 
And song and clamor of sea-filled caves. 
What ship to-night such tempest braves ? 

Yet see, ah, see, how a snake of light 

Goes hissing and writhing up all the night, 

While the cry, " Going doivn!" through the winds' mad might — - 

Through the roar of the winds and the waves together — 

Is sent this way by the shrieking weather. 

But to help on such night were a vain endeavor. 

See! a glare of torches; and married and single, 

Men and women confused commingle — 

You can hear the rush of their feet down the shingle. 

O, salt and keen is the spray in their faces ; 

From the strength of the wind they reel in their paces, 

Catch hands to steady them there in their places. 

How would a boat in such seas behave? 

But the life-boat! Quick! The life-boat will save. 

She is manned with her crew of strong fellows and brave. 

See! They ride on the heights, in the deep valleys dip, 
Until, with wild cries which the winds outstrip, 
Their boat is hurled on the sinking ship. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 197 

Its side is gored, for the sea to have way through — 

"It is over!" they cried. "We have done all men may do ; 

Yet there's one chance left!" and themselves they threw 

Right into the wrath of the sea and the wind ! 
It rages all around them, before and behind. 
Their ears are deafened; their eyes are blind. 

Then in the middlemost hell of the night, 

Yea, in the innermost heart of the fight, 

They strain and struggle with all their might — 

With never a pause, while God's mercy they cry on, 
Their teeth are set, and their muscles are iron — 
Each man has the heart and the thews of a lion. 

Wave spurns them to wave. They may do it! Who knows? 
For shoreward the great tide towering goes, 
And shoreward the great wind thundering blows. 

But, no ! See that wave, like a Fate bearing on ! 
It breaks them and passes. Two swimmers alone 
Are seen in the wave, and their strength is nigh gone. 

Quoth three sailors on shore: "They must give up hope. 
Neither swimmer nor boat with such surges could cope. 
Nor could one stand steady to cast a rope. 

" For he who would cast it must stand hip-high 
In the trough of the sea, and be thrown thereby 
On his face, nevermore to behold the sky." 

But a woman stepped out from those gathered there, 
And she said : " My life for their lives will I dare. 
I pray for strength, God will hear my prayer." 



198 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

And the light of her soul her eyes shone through, 
But the men they jeered, and they cried "Go to! 
Can a woman do what we dare not do?" 

Spake another woman — " I, too! We twain 
Will do our best, strive with might and main, 
And if what we do shall be done in vain, 

" And the great sea have us to hold and hide, 

It was surely better thus to have died 

Than to live as these others. Haste! Haste!" she cried. 

They seized a rope, and with no word more, 
Fearless of death, down the steep of the shore 
They dashed, right into the light and the roar 

Of the giant waves, which sprang on them there, 
As a beast of prey might spring from his lair, 
While the roar of his triumph made deaf the air. 

O, loud is the Death they hurry to meet — 
The stones slip shrieking from under their feet — 
They stagger, but fall not. Beat, mad billows, beat! 

They raise their arms, with their soul's strength quivering — 
They pause — " Will it reach? " — Then they shout and fling. 
And straight as a stone driven forth by a sling — 

Driven far afield by a master hand — 

The rope whizzes out from the seething strand; 

A shout — "It is caught! For land, now, for land! " 

A crash like thunder! They drop to their knees, 
But they keep their hold in the under seas. 
They rise. They pull. Nor falter, nor cease. 



• 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 199 

The strength of ten men have these women to-night. 
And they shout with the rapturous sense of their might — 
Shout as men shout when they revel in fight. 

They reel, but they fall not. The rope winds in fast ; 
Hark, hark! what a shout answers their shout at last — 
"That will do! We touch bottom! The danger is past!" 

Then the women turn from the raging water 

With the two they have snatched from its lust for slaughter, 

But their feet flag now, and their breath comes shorter. 

Hardly they hear in their sea-dimmed ears 
The sound of sobs, or the sound of cheers — 
Their eyes are drowned, but with spray, not tears. 

When deeds of valor Coast vaunts over Coast, 
As to which proved bravest, and which did most, 
Two Swansea women shall be my toast. 

Philip Bourke Marston. 



INFLUENCE OF AMERICAN FREEDOM. 

SIR, our institutions are telling their own story by the blessings 
they impart to us, and indoctrinating the people everywhere 
with the principles of freedom upon which they are founded. 
Ancient prejudices are yielding to their mighty influence. Heretofore 
revered, and apparently permanent systems of government, are falling 
beneath it. Our glorious mother, free as she has ever comparatively 
been, is getting to be freer. It has blotted out the corruptions of her 
political franchise. It has broken her religious intolerance. It has 
greatly elevated the individual character of her subjects. It has 
immeasurably weakened the power of her nobles, and by weakening 
in one sense has vastly strengthened the authority of her crown, by 



200 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

forcing it to rest for all its power and glory upon the breasts of its 
people. 

To Ireland too— impulsive Ireland — the land of genius, of elo- 
quence, and of valor, it is rapidly carrying the blessings of a restored 
freedom and happiness. In France, all of political liberty which 
belongs to her, is to be traced to it ; and even now it is to be seen 
cheering, animating, and guiding the classic land of Italy, making the 
very streets of Rome itself to ring with shouts of joy and gratitude 
for its presence. Sir, such a spirit suffers no inactivity, and needs no 
incentive. It admits of neither enlargement nor restraint. Upon its 
own elastic and never-tiring wing, it is now soaring over the civilized 
world, everywhere leaving its magic and abiding charm. I say, then, 
try not, seek not to aid it. Bring no physical force to succor it. 
Such an adjunct would serve only to corrupt and paralyze its efforts. 
Leave it to itself, and sooner or later, man will be free. 

Reverdy Johnson. 



T 



ON THE RAPPAHANNOCK. 

HE sun had dropped into the distant west, 

The cannons ceased to roar, which tells of rest, 
Rest from the shedding of a nation's blood, 
Rest to lay their comrades 'neath the sod. 



'Twas early spring, and calm and still the night, 
The moon had risen, casting softest light; 
On either side of stream the armies lay, 
Waiting for morn, to then renew the fray. 

So near together a sound was heard by all, 
Each could hear the other's sentry-call, 
The bivouac fires burned brightly on each hill, 
And save the tramp of pickets all was still. 

The Rappahannock silently flows on 
Between the hills so fair to look upon, 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 201 

Whose dancing waters, tinged with silver light, 
Vie in their beauty with the starry night. 

But list! from Northern hill there steal along 
The softest strains of music and of song. 
The " Starry Banner," our nation's glorious air, 
Which tells to all of gallant flag "still there." 

Then "Hail Columbia" a thousand voices sing 
With all their soul, which makes the hill-tops ring. 
From fire to fire, from tent to tent then flew 
The welcome words, " Lads sing the ' Boys in Blue. ' " 

And well they sang. Each heart was filled with joy, 
From first in rank to little drummer-boy ; 
Then loud huzzas, and wildest cheers were given, 
Which seemed to cleave the air and reach to heaven. 

The lusty cheering reached the Southern ear, — 
Men who courted danger, knew no fear, 
Whilst talking of their scanty evening meal, 
And each did grasp his trusty blade of steal. 

Those very strains of music which of yore 

Did raise the blood, are felt by them no more. 

How changed! What now they scorn and taunt and jeer, 

Was once to them as sacred, just as dear; 

And when the faintest echo seemed to die, 

The last huzza been wafted to the sky, 

The boys in blue had lain them down to rest, 

With gun and bayonet closely hugged to breast, — 

There came from Southern hill with gentle swell 
The air of "Dixie," which was loved so well 
By every one who wore the coat of gray, 
And still revered and cherished to this day. 



202 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

In "Dixie's land" they swore to live and die, 
That was their watchword, that their battle cry. 
Then rose on high the wild Confederate yell, 
Resounding over every hill and dell; — 

Cheer after cheer went up that starry night 
From men as brave as ever saw the light. 
Now all is still. Each side had played its part, 
How simple songs will fire a soldier's heart ! 

But hark! From Rappahannock stream there floats 

Another air; but, ah! how sweet the notes — 

Not those which lash men's passions into foam, 

But, richest gem of song, 'twas " Home, Sweet Home," 

Played by the band, which reached the very soul, 
And down the veteran's cheeks the tear-drop stole. 
Men who would march to very cannon's mouth 
Wept like children, from both North and South. 

Beneath those well-worn coats af gray and blue 
Were generous, tender hearts, both brave and true. 
The sentry stopped and rested on his gun, 
While back to home his thoughts did swiftly run. 

Thinking of loving wife and children there, 
With no one left to guide them, none to care, 
Stripling lads not strong enough to bear 
The weight of sabre, or the knapsack wear, 

Tried to stop with foolish, boyish pride 
The starting tear ; as well try stop the tide 
Of ceaseless rolling ocean, just as well, 
As stop those tears which fast and faster fell. 

Then, lo! by mutual sympathy there rose 

A shout tremendous, forgetting they were foes, 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 203 

A simultaneous shout, which came from every voice, 
And seemed to make the very heavens rejoice. 

Sweet music's power! one chord doth make us wild, 
But change the strain, we weep as little child ; 
Touch yet another, men charge the battery gun, 
And by those martial strains — a victory's won ; 
It matters not from whence, how far you roam, 
No heart so cold that does not love "Sweet Home." 

Charles H. Tiffany. 



LAST CHARGE OF MARSHAL NEY. 

THE whole continental struggle exhibited no sublimer spectacle 
than this last effort of Napoleon to save his sinking empire. 
Europe had been put upon the plains of Waterloo to be battled 
for. The greatest military energy and skill the world possessed had 
been tasked to the utmost during the day. Thrones were tottering on 
the ensanguined field, and the shadows of fugitive kings flitted through 
the smoke of battle. Bonaparte's star trembled in the zenith — now 
blazing out in its ancient splendor, now suddenly paling before his 
anxious eye. At length, when the Prussians appeared on the field, he 
resolved to stake Europe on one bold throw. He committed himself 
and France to Ney, and saw his Empire rest on a single chance. 

Ney felt the pressure of the immense responsibility on his brave 
heart, and resolved not to prove unworthy of the great trust com- 
mitted to his care. Nothing could be more imposing than the move- 
ment of that great column to the assault. That guard had never yet 
recoiled before a human foe, and the allied forces beheld with awe its 
firm and terrible advance to the final charge. For a moment the bat- 
teries stopped playing, and the firing ceased along the British lines, as 
without the beating of a drum, or the blast of a bugle, to cheer their 
steady courage, they moved in dead silence over the plain. The next 
moment the artillery opened, and the head of that gallant column 



204 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

seemed to sink into the earth. Rank after rank went down, yet they 
neither stopped nor faltered. Dissolving squadrons, and whole bat- 
talions disappearing one after another in the destructive fire, affected 
not their steady courage. The ranks closed up as before, and each 
treading over his fallen comrade, pressed firmly on. The horse that 
Ney rode fell under him, and he had scarcely mounted another before 
it also sunk to the earth, Again and again did that unflinching man 
feel his steed sink down, till five had been shot under him. 

Then, with his uniform riddled with bullets, and his face singed and 
blackened with powder, he marched on foot with drawn sabre, at the 
head of his men. In vain did the artillery hurl its storm of fire and 
lead into the living mass. Up to the very muzzles they pressed and 
driving the artillerymen from their own pieces, pushed on through the 
English lines. But at that moment a file of soldiers who had lain flat 
on the ground, behind a low ridge of earth, suddenly rose and poured 
a volley in their very faces. Another and another followed till one 
broad sheet of flame rolled on their bosoms and in such a fierce and 
unexpected flow, that human courage could not withstand it. They 
reeled, shook, staggered back, then turned and fled. Ney was borne 
back in the refluent tide, and hurried over the field. But for the crowd 
of fugitives that forced him on, he would have stood alone, and fallen 
in his footsteps. As it was, disdaining to fly, though the whole army 
was flying, he formed his men into two immense squares, and 
endeavored to stem the terrific current, and would have done so, had 
it not been for the thirty thousand fresh Prussians that pressed on his 
exhausted ranks. For a long time these squares stood and let the 
artillery plough through them. 

But the fate of Napoleon was writ, and though Ney doubtless did 
what no other man in the army could have done, the decree could not 
be reversed. The star that had blazed so brightly over the world 
went down in blood, and the "bravest of the brave" had fought his 
last battle. It was worthy of his great name, and the charge of the 
Old Guard at Waterloo, with him at their head, will be pointed to by 
remotest generations with a shudder. — J. T. Headley. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 205 

LA5CA. 

I WANT- free life, and I want fresh air ; 
And I sigh for the canter after the cattle, 
The crack of the whips like shots in a battle, 
The medley of horns and hoofs and heads 
That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads; 
The green beneath and the blue above, 
And dash and danger, and life and love. 

And Lasca! 

Lasca used to ride 
On a mouse-gray mustang close to my side, 
With blue serape and bright-belled spur; 
I laughed with joy as I looked at her! 
She was as bold as the billows that beat, 
She was as wild as the breezes that blow ; 
From her little head to her little feet, 
She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro 
By each gust of passion; a sapling pine, 
That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff, 
And wars with the wind when the weather is rough, 
Is like this Lasca, this love of mine. 
She would hunger that I might eat, 
Would take the bitter, and leave me the sweet; 
But once, when I made her jealous for fun, 
At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done, 
One Sunday, in San Antonio, 
To a glorious girl on the Alamo, 
She drew from her garter a dear little dagger, 
And — sting of a wasp ! — it made me stagger! 
An inch to the left, or an inch to the right, 
And I shouldn't be maundering here to-night; 
But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound 



206 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Her torn reboso about the wound, 
That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count 
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.. 

Her eye was brown, — a deep, deep brown 
Her hair was darker than her eye; 
And something in her smile and frown, 
Curled crimson lip, and instep high, 
Showed that there ran in each blue vein, 
Mixed with the milder Aztec strain, 
The vigorous vintage of Old Spain. 
She was alive in every limb 
With feeling, to the finger-tips; 
And when the sun is like a fire, 
And sky one shining, soft sapphire 
One does not drink in little sips. 

The air was heavy, the night was hot, 

I sat by her side, and forgot— forgot ; 

Forgot the herd that were taking their rest, 

Forgot that the air was close opprest, 

That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon, 

In the dead of night or the blaze of noon ; 

That, once let the herd at its breath take fright, 

Nothing on earth can stop the flight; 

And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed, 

Who falls in front of their mad stampede! 

Was that thunder ? I grasped the cord 
Of my swift mustang without a word. 
I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind. 
Away! on a hot chase down the wind ! 
But never was fox-hunt half so hard, 
And never was steed so little spared. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 207 

For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared, 
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande. 

The mustang flew, and we urged him on; 

There was one chance left, and you have but one, — 

Halt, jump to ground, and shoot your horse; 

Crouch under his carcass, and take your chance; 

And if the steers in their frantic course 

Don't batter you both to pieces at once, 

You may thank your star; if not, good-by 

To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh, 

And the open air and the open sky, 

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande. 

The cattle gained on us, and, just as I felt 
For my old six-shooter behind in my belt, 
Down came the mustang, and down came we, 
Clinging together, and — what was the rest? 
A body that spread itself on my breast, 
Two arms that shielded my dizzy head, 
Two lips that hard on my lips were prest; 
Then came thunder in my ears, 
As over us surged the sea of steers, 
Blows that beat blood into my eyes, 
And when I could rise — 
Lasca was dead! 

I goug@d out a grave a few feet deep, 

And there in Earth's arms I laid her to sleep; 

And there she is lying, and no one knows ; 

And the summer shines, and the winter snows; 

For many a day the flowers have spread 

A pall of petals over her head, 

And the little gray hawk hangs aloft in the air, 

And the sly coyote trots here and there, 



208 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

And the black snake glides and glitters and slides 

Into a rift in a cottonwood tree; 

And the buzzard sails on, 

And comes and is gone, 

Stately and still like a ship at sea. 

And I wonder why I do not care 

For the things that are, like the things that were. 

Does half my heart lie buried there, 

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande ? 

Frank Desprez. 



THE TEA=KETTLE AND THE CRICKET. 

[Read in an animated, conversational style.] 

IT appears as if there were a sort of match', or trial of skill, you 
must understand, between the kettle and the cricket. And this 
is what led to it, and how it came about. 

The kettle was aggravating and obstinate. It wouldn't allow itself 
to be adjusted on the top bar; it wouldn't hear of accommodating 
itself kindly to the knobs of coal, it would lean forward with a drunken 
air, and dribble, a very idiot of a kettle, on the hearth. It was quar- 
relsome, and hissed and spluttered morosely at the fire. 

To sum up all, the lid, resisting Mrs. Peerybingle's fingers, first of 
all turned topsy-turvy, and then, with an ingenious pertinacity deserv- 
ing of a better cause, dived sideways in — down to the very bottom of 
the kettle. And the hull of the Royal George has never made half 
the monstrous resistance to coming out of the water, which the lid of 
that kettle employed against Mrs. Peerybingle, before she got it up 
again. 

It looked sullen and pig-headed enough, even then, carrying its 
handle with an air of defiance, and cocking its spout pertly and mock- 
ingly at Mrs. Peerybingle, as if it said, " I won't boil. Nothing shall 
induce me." 

But Mrs. Peerybingle, with restored good humor, dusted her 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 209 

chubby little hands against each other and sat down before the kettle 
laughing. Meantime the jolly blaze uprose and fell, flashing and 
gleaming on the little haymaker at the top of the Dutch clock, until 
one might have thought he stood stock still before the Moorish palace, 
and nothing was in motion but the flame. 

Now it was, you observe, that the kettle began to spend the even- 
ing. Now it was, that the kettle, growing mellow and musical, began 
to have irrepressible gurglings in its throat, and to indulge in short 
vocal snorts, which it checked in the bud, as if it hadn't quite made 
up its mind yet to be good company. Now it was, that after two or 
three such vain attempts to stifle its convival sentiments, it threw off 
all moroseness, all reserve, and burst into a stream of song so cosy 
and hilarious as never maudlin nigtingale yet formed the least idea of. 

So plain, too ! Bless you, you might have understood it like a 
book ; better than some books you and I could name, perhaps! With 
its warm breath gushing forth in a light cloud, which merrily and 
gracefully ascended a few feet, then hung about the chimney corner, 
as its own domestic heaven, it trolled its song with that strong energy 
of cheerfulness that its iron body hummed and stirred upon the fire ; 
and the lid itself, the recently-rebellious lid — such is the influence of a 
bright example — performed a sort of jig, and clattered like a deaf and 
dumb young cymbal that had never known the use of its twin 
brother. 

That this song of the kettle's was a song of invitation and welcome 
to somebody out of doors, to somebody at that moment coming on 
towards the snug small home and the crisp fire, there is no doubt 
whatever. Mrs. Peerybingle knew it perfectly, as she sat musing 
before the hearth. 

"It's a dark night," sang the kettle, " and the rotten leaves are lying 
by the way, and above all is mist and darkness, and below all is mire 
and clay; and there's only one relief in all the sad and murky air; 
and I don't know that it is one, for it's nothing but a glare of deep and 
angry crimson, where the sun and wind together set a brand upon the 
clouds for being guilty of such weather ; and the widest open country 
14 



210 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

is a long dull streak of black ; and there's hoar-frost on the finger- 
post, and thaw upon the track; and the ice isn't water, and the water 
isn't free; and you couldn't say that anything is what it ought to be; 
but he's coming, coming, coming! — " 

And here, if you like, the cricket did chime in with Chirrup, chir- 
rup, chirrup / of such magnitude, by way of chorus, with a voice so 
astoundingly disproportionate to its size, as compared with the kettle, 
(size, you couldn't see it!) — that if it had then and there burst itself, 
like an overcharged gun, if it had fallen a victim on the spot, and 
chirruped its little body into fifty pieces, it would have seemed a 
natural and inevitable consequence, for which it had expressly labored. 

The kettle had had the last of its solo performances. It persevered 
with undiminished ardor; but the cricket took first fiddle, and kept it. 
Good heaven, how it chirped! Its shrill, sharp, piercing voice 
resounded through the house, and seemed to twinkle in the outer 
darkness like a star. 

There was an indescribable little thrill and tremble in it, at its 
loudest, which suggested its being carried off its legs, and made to leap 
again, by its own intense enthusiasm. Yet they went very well 
together, the cricket and the kettle. The burden of the song was still 
the same ; and louder, louder, louder still they sang it in their emulation. 

There was all the excitement of a race about it. Chirp, chirp, 
chirp! cricket a mile ahead. Hum, hum, hum-m-m I kettle making 
play in the distance, like a great top. Chirp, chirp, chirp ! cricket 
round the corner. Hum, hum, hum-m-m! kettle sticking to him in 
his own way ; no idea of giving in. Chirp, chirp, chirp ! cricket 
fresher than ever. Hum, hum, hum-m-m ! kettle slow and steady. 
Chirp, chirp, chirp! cricket going in to finish him. Hum, hum, 
hum-m-m ! kettle not to be finished. 

Until at last they got so jumbled together, in the hurry-scurry, 
helter-skelter of the match, that whether the kettle chirped and the 
cricket hummed, or the cricket chirped and the kettle hummed, or they 
both chirped and both hummed, it would have taken a clearer head 
than yours or mine to have decided with certainty. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 211 

Of this is no doubt ; that the kettle and the cricket, at one and the 
same moment, and by some power of amalgamation best known to 
themselves, sent each his fireside song of comfort streaming into a ray 
of the candle that shone out through the window, and a long way 
down the lane. And this light, bursting on a certain person, who, 
on the instant, approached towards it through the' gloom, expressed 
the whole thing to him literally in a twinkling, and cried, "Welcome 
home, old fellow! welcome home, my boy!" 

This end attained, the kettle, being dead beat, boiled over, and was 
taken off the fire. — Charles Dickens. 



WHAT IS A MINORITY? 

"T T"HAT is a minority? The chosen heroes of this earth have 
j/SL been in a minority. There is not a social, political, or relig- 
ious privilege that you enjoy to-day that was not bought for 
you by the blood and tears and patient suffering of the minority. It 
is the minority that have vindicated humanity in every struggle. It is 
a minority that have stood in the van of every moral conflict, and 
achieved all that is noble in the history of the world. You will find 
that each generation has been always busy in gathering up the scat- 
tered ashes of the martyred heroes of the past, to deposit them in the 
golden urn of a nation's history. Look at Scotland, where they are 
erecting monuments — to whom ? — to the Covenanters. Ah, they were 
in a minority. Read their history, if you can, without the blood 
tingling to the tips of your fingers. These were in the minority, that, 
through blood, and tears, and bootings and scourgings — dying the 
waters with their blood, and staining the heather with their gore — 
fought the glorious battle of religious freedom. 

Minority! if a man stands for the right, though the right be on the 
scaffold, while the wrong sits in the seat of government ; if he stands 
for the right, though he eat, with the right and truth, a wretched 
crust; if he walk with obloquy and scorn in the by-lanes and streets, 



212 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

while the falsehood and wrong ruffle it in silken attire, let him remem- 
ber that wherever the right and truth are there are always 

"Troops of beautiful, tall angels" 

gathered round him, and God Himself stands within the dim future, 
and keeps watch over his own ! If a man stands for the right and the 
truth, though every man's finger be pointed at him, though every 
woman's lip be curled at him with scorn, he stands in a majority ; for 
God and good angels are with him, and greater are they that are for 
him than all they that be against him. — John B. Gough. 



ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. 

[The voices of the birds should be imitated. With practice this can be done with 

rare effect.] 

T^HCEBE ! Phcebe ! Phcebe ! " 

The trees were bare and the sky was gray, 

But the Peewee sang his blithesome lay, 

For this was good Saint Valentine's Day, 

When each bird was to choose his mate 

Cock Robin came in his scarlet vest, 

The Bluebird wore his Sunday best, 

The Oriole nodded his jaunty crest, 

And looked about for his fate. 

"Bob White! Bob White!" 
The brown Quail whistled his clearest strain, 
The Catbird caroled a sweet refrain, 
And the Blackbird piped, with might and main, 

His merriest roundelay; 
The Partridge drummed on a red-oak tree, 
The Sap-sucker ran up and down in glee, 
And the red-headed Woodpecker made quite free, 

And chattered a chorus gay. 

"Cuckoo! cuckoo! , cuckoo ! " 
The Rain-crow's note was plainly heard, 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 213 

And the merry call of the Sugar-bird, 
As over the maple groves he whirred 

And winged his airy flight. 
The Killdee came from the marsh's brink, 
The Chuck-will's-widow and Bobolink, 
And the Shy-poke, looking ready to sink 

With bashfulness and affright. 

" Hoot-hoot-to-hoo ! " 
The Horn-owl flew from his hollow tree, 
Looking as wise as "who-but-he; " 
The Chimney Swallow and pert Jo Ree 

Skimmed merrily here and there ; 
The Thrush and the Ground-bird, and Tom-tit blue, 
The Meadow-lark and the Yellow-bird, too, 
The Shrike and the Kite and King-bird flew 

To choose each a partner fair. 

"Coo! coo! coo!" 
The WooJ-dove sang with a tender trill, 
While soft and low from the crested hill 
Came the plaintive cry of the Whip-poor-will, 

And the call of the blue-winged Jay. 
The Yellow-hammer arrived quite late, 
The Crow cawed aloud as he sat in state, 
And each one merrily chose a mate 

On good Saint Valentine's Day. 
And then what a flood of song broke out! 
Each bird trilled forth in a merry bout, 
With a " Coo, coo, coo ! Hoot-hoot-to-hoot ! 
Bobolink, bobolink, chee, chir, chink ! 
Piree-whee, piree-whee, piree-whee ! 
Tu-re-lu, tu-re-lu ! Chee, chee, chee, chir-r-r-ink ! 

Helen Whitney Clark. 



214 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 



A 



A RACE FOR LIFE. 

[Let your voice come out full and hearty on "Up with her, lads," etc.] 

GUN is heard at the dead of night — 

" Lifeboat ready!" 
And every man, to the signal true, 
Fights for place in the eager crew ; 

"Now, lads! steady." 
First a glance at the shuddering foam, 
Now a look at the loving home, 
Then together, with bated breath, 
They launch their boat in the gulf of death. 

Over the breakers wild, 

Little they reck of weather, 

But tear their way 

Through blinding spray. 

Hear the skipper cheer and say! 

" Up with her, lads, and lift her ! 

All too-ether!" 



y .^ v 



They see the ship in a sudden flash 

Sinking ever, 
And grip their oars with a deeper breath, 
Now it's come to a fight with death, 

Now or never! 
Fifty strokes, and they're at her side, 
If they live in the boiling tide, 
If they last through the awful strife. 
Ah, my lads, it's a race for life ! 

Over the breakers wild, 

Little they reck of weather, 

But tear the way 

Through blinding spray. 

Hear the skipper cheer and say 



DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 215 

"Up with her, lads, and lift her! 
All together!" 

And loving hearts are on the shore, 

Hoping, fearing; 
Till over the sea there comes a cheer, 
Then the click of the oars you hear 

Homeward steering — 
Ne'er a thought of the danger past 
Now the lads are on land at last; 
What's a storm to a gallant crew 
Who race for life, and who win it, too ? 

Over the breakers wild, 

Little they reck of weather, 

But tear their way 

Through blinding spray. 

Hear the skipper cheer and say, 

" Up with her, lads, and lift her ! 

All together!" 



SACRILEGE. 

BESIDE the wall, and near the massive gate 
Of the great temple in Jerusalem, 
The legionary, Probus, stood elate, 
His eager clasp circling a royal gem. 

It was an offering made by some dead king 
Unto the great Jehovah, when the sword 

Amid his foes had mown a ghastly ring, 
Helped by the dreaded angel of the Lord. 

There, on his rival's crest, among the slain, 
Through the red harvest it had clearly shone, 



218 DESCRIPTIVE AND DRAMATIC READINGS. 

Lighting the grimness of the sanguine plain 
With splendors that had glorified a throne. 

Above the altar of God's sacred place, 
A watchful star, it lit the passing years, 

With radiance falling on each suppliant's face, 
Gleaming alike in love's and sorrow's tears, 

Till swept the war-tide through the sun-lit vales 
Leading from Jordan aud the western sea, 

And the fierce host of Titus filled the gales 
With jubilant shouts, and songs of victory. 

Then came the day when over all the walls 

The Romans surged, and Death laughed loud and high, 

And there was wailing in the palace halls, 
And sounds of lamentations in the sky. 

Torn from its place, it lay within the hand 

Of Probus, whose keen sword had rent a way, 

With rapid blows, amid the priestly band 

Whose piteous prayers moaned through that dreadful 
day. 

And there, beside the wall, he stopped to gaze 
Upon the fortune that would give his life 

The home and rest that come with bounteous days, 
And brino; reward for toil and war-like strife. 



'S 



There was no cloud in all heaven's lustrous blue, 

Yet suddenly a red flash cleft the air, 
And the dark shadow held a deeper hue — 

A dead man, with an empty hand, lay there. 

Thomas Stephens Collier. 




JULIA MARLOWE. 



O, WHAT A NOBLE MIND IS HERE O'ERTHROWN! 

OPHELIA. 




E. S. WILLARD. 

'DEAD' AND I HAVE KILLED HIM!" 



PART V. 
Grave and Pathetic Readings. 



A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. 

[This beautiful selection, written by Charles Dickens, should be read with deep 
feeling, and in an easy, conversational style.] 

THERE was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal, and 
thought of a number of things. He had a sister who was a 
child too, and his constant companion. They wondered at the 
beauty of flowers ; they wondered at the height and blueness of the 
sky ; they wondered at the depth of the water ; they wondered at the 
goodness and power of God, who made them so lovely. 

They used to say to one another sometimes : Supposing all the 
children upon earth were to die, would the flowers, and the water, and 
the sky be sorry ? They believed they would be sorry. For, said 
they, the buds are the children of the flowers, and the little playful 
streams that gambol down the hillsides are the children of the water, 
and the smallest bright specks playing at hide-and-seek in the sky all 
night must surely be the children of the stars; and they would all be 
grieved to see their playmates, the children of men, no more. 

There was one clear shining star that used to come out in the sky 
before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. It was larger 
and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and every night 
they watched for it, standing hand-in-hand at the window. Whoever 
saw it first, cried out, "I see the star.'' And after that, they cried out 
both together, knowing so well when it would rise, and where. So 
they grew to be such friends with it, that before laying down in their 
bed, they always looked out once again to bid it good-night ; and when 

217 



218 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

they were turning around to sleep, they used to say, • • God bless the 
star!" 

But while she was still very young, oh, very young, the sister 
drooped, and came to be so weak that she could no longer stand at 
the window at night, and then the child looked sadly out by himself, 
and when he saw the star, turned round and said to the patient pale 
face on the bed, "I see the star! " and then a smile would come upon 
the face, and a little weak voice used to say, " God bless my brother 
and the star !" 

And so the time came, all too soon, when the child looked out all 
alone, and when there was no face on the bed, and when there was a 
grave among the graves, not there before, and when the star made 
long rays down toward him as he saw it through his tears. Now 
these rays were so bright, and they seemed to make such a shining 
way from earth to heaven, that when the child went to his solitary bed, 
he dreamed about the star; and dreamed that, lying where he was, he 
saw a train of people taken up that sparkling road by angels ; and the 
star, opening, showing him a great world of light, where many more 
such angels waited to receive them. 

All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming eyes upon 
the people who were carried up into the star ; and some came out 
from the long rows in which they stood, and fell upon the people's 
necks, and kissed them tenderly, and went away with them down 
avenues of light, and were so happy in their company, that lying in 
his bed he wept for joy. 

But there were many angels who did not go with them, and among 
them one he knew. The patient face that once had lain upon the bed 
was glorified and radiant, but his heart found out his sister among all 
the host. 

His sister's angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said to 
the leader among those who had brought the people thither : 

" Is my brother come ? " 

And he said, " No ! " 

She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 219 

arms, and cried, " Oh, sister, I am here ! Take me ! " And then she 
turned her beaming eyes upon him — and it was night ; and the star 
was shining into the room, making long rays down towards him as he 
saw it through his tears. 

From that hour forth the child looked out upon the star as the 
home he was to go to when his time should come ; and he thought 
that he did not belong to the earth alone, but to the star too, because 
of his sister's angel gone before. 

There was a baby born to be a brother to the child, and, while he 
was so little that he never yet had spoken a word, he stretched out his 
tiny form on his bed, and died. 

Again the child dreamed of the opened star, and of the company 
of angels, -and the train of people, and the rows of angels with their 
beaming eyes all turned upon those people's faces. 

Said his sister's angel to the leader : 

" Is my brother come ? " 

And he said, "Not that one, but another! " 

As the child beheld his brother's angel in her arms, he cried, " Oh, 
my sister, I am here! Take me ! " And she turned and smiled upon 
him — and the star was shining. 

He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books, when an 
old servant came to him and said : 

" Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessing on her darling son. " 

Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. Said 
his sister's angel to the leader, " Is mv brother come? " 

And he said, " Thy mother ! " 

A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because the 
mother was re-united to her two children. And he stretched out his 
arms and cried, "Oh, mother, sister and brother, I am here! Take 
me ! " And they answered him, " Not yet ! " — and the star was shin- 
ing. 

He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning gray, and he was sit- 
ting in his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief, and with his face 
bedewed with tears, when the star opened once again. 



220 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

Said his sister's angel to the leader, " Is my brother come ? " 

And he said, " Nay, but his maiden daughter ! " 

And the man who had been a child, saw his daughter, newly lost 
to him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said : " My 
daughter's head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is around my 
mother's neck, and at her feet is the baby of old time, and I can bear 
the parting from her, God be praised ! " — and the star was shining. 

Thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth face 
was wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and his back was 
bent. And one night as he lay upon his bed, his children standing 
round, he cried, as he cried so long ago : " I see the star ! " 

They whispered one another, " He is dying." And he said, " I am. 
My age is falling from me like a garment, and 1 move towards the star 
as a child. And O, my Father, now I thank Thee that it has so often 
opened to receive those dear ones who await me ! " 

And the star was shining; and it shines upon his grave. 

Charles Dickens. 



S' 



HILDA, SPINNING. 

[The figures refer to the corresponding numbers in Part I.] 

PINNING, spinning, by the sea, 
All the night ! 
On a stormy, rock-ribbed shore, 9 
Where the north-winds downward pour, 
And the tempests fiercely sweep 21 
From the mountains to the deep, 
Hilda spins beside the sea, 
All the night ! 

Spinning, at her lonely window, 

By the sea ! 
With her candle burning clear, 
Every night of all the year, 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 221 

And her sweet voice crooning low 
Quaint old songs of love and woe, 
Spins she at her lonely window 
By the sea. 

On a bitter night in March, 

Long ago, 
Hilda, very young and fair, 
With a crown of golden hair, 
Watched the tempest raging wild, 
Watched the roaring sea 17 — and smiled — 
Through that woeful night in March, 

Long ago ! 

What, though all the winds were out 

In their might ? 
Richard's boat was tried and true ; 2 
Staunch and brave his hardy crew ; 
Strongest he to do or dare. 
Said she, breathing forth a prayer : 
" He is safe, 6 though winds are out 

In their might ! " 

But, at length, the morning dawned 

Still and clear; 
Calm, in azure splendor, lay 23 
All the Vaters of the bay ; 
And the ocean's angry moans 
Sank to solemn undertones, 
As, at last, the morning dawned 

Still and clear ! 

With her waves of golden hair. 

Floating free, 
Hilda ran along the shore, 9 



222 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

Gazing off the waters o'er; 24 
And the fishermen replied : 
"He will come in with the tide," 
As they saw her golden hair 
Floating free ! 

Ah ! he came in with the tide, 

Came alone ! 
Tossed upon the shining sands, 
Ghastly face and clutching hands, 22 
Seaweed tangled in his hair, 
Bruised and torn his forehead fair — 
Thus he came in with the tide, 
All alone ! 

Hilda watched beside her dead 19 

Day and night. 
Of those hours of mortal woe 
Human ken may never know ; 
She was silent, 10 and his ear 
Kept the secret, close and dear, 
Of her watch beside her dead, 

Day and night ! 

What she promised in the darkness 

Who can tell ? 
But upon that rock-ribbed shore 9 
Burns a beacon evermore; 
And, beside it, all the night, 
Hilda guards the lonely light, 
Though what vowed she in the darkness 

None may tell! 

Spinning, spinning by the sea, 
All the night ! 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 223 

While her candle, gleaming wide 9 
O'er the restless, rolling tide, 
Guides with steady, changeless ray, 
The lone fisher up the bay — 
Hilda spins beside the sea, 
Through the night 

Fifty years of patient spinning 

By the sea ! 
Old and worn, she sleeps to-day, 7 
While the sunshine gilds the bay ; 
But her candle shining clear 
Every night of all the year, 
Still is telling 3 of her spinning 

By the sea ! 



THE OLD SCHOOL CLOCK. 

[John Boyle O'Reilly's first poem was written in 1866 while a prisoner in Arbor 
Hill prison, Dublin, and lay hidden several years in the register of his cell. Mr. 
Vere Foster, a philanthropist, discovered it on one of his visits to the prison, 
and published it in one of a series of copybooks, owned by him and adopted by 
the National Board of Education in Ireland. When the board learned who the 
author was and where the poem had been written, the entire edition of books 
containing it was suppressed. The board was unwilling to sanction a production 
from a political offender who had been imprisoned.] 

OLD memories rush o'er my mind just now, 
Of faces and friends of the past ; 
Of that happy time when life's dream was all bright, 
Ere the clear sky of youth was o'ercast. 
Very dear are those memories; they've clung round my heart 

And bravely withstood Time's rude shock ; 
But not one is more hallowed or dear to me now, 
Than the face of the old school clock. 

'Twas a quaint old clock, with a quaint old face, 
And great iron weights and chains ; 



224 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

It stopped when it liked, and before it struck 

It croaked as if 'twere in pain. 
It had seen many years, and it seemed to say, 

"I'm one of the real old stock," 
To the youthful boy, who, with reverence, looked 

On the face of the old school clock. 

How many a time I have labored to sketch 

That yellow and time-honored face, 
With its basket of flowers, its figures and hands, 

And the weights and chains in their place ! 
How oft have I gazed with admiring eye, 

As I sat on the wooden block, 
And pondered and guessed at the wonderful things 

That were inside that old school clock. 

What a terrible frown did the old clock wear 

To the truant who timidly cast 
An anxious eye on those merciless hands, 

That for him had been moving too fast! 
But its frown soon changed, for it loved to smile 

On the thoughtless, noisy flock, 
And it creaked and whined and struck with glee 

Did that genial, good-humored clock. 

Well, years had passed, and my mind was filled 
With the world, its cares and ways, 

When again I stood in that little school 
Where I passed my boyhood's days. 

My old friend was gone ! and there hung a thing 
That my sorrow seemed to mock, 

As I gazed with a tear and a softened heart 
, At a new-fashioned Yankee clock. 

'Twas a gaudy thing, with bright painted sides, 
And it looked with an insolent stare 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 225 

On the desks and the seats and on everything old ; 

And I thought of the friendly air 
Of the face that I missed, with its weights and chains — 

All gone to the auctioneer's block ; 
'Tis a thing of the past ; nevermore shall I see 

But in memory that old school clock. 

'Tis the way of the world; old friends pass away, 

And fresh faces arise in their stead; 
But still, 'mid the din and the bustle of life, 

We cherish fond thoughts of the dead. 
Yes, dearly those memories cling round my heart ; 

And bravely withstand Time's rude shock ; 
But not one is more hallowed or dear to me now 

Than the face of that old school clock. 

John Boyle O'Reilly. 



LITTLE BOY BLUE. 

THE little toy dog is covered with dust, 
But sturdy and staunch he stands ; 
And the little toy soldier is red with rust, , 

And his musket moulds in his hands. 
Time was when the little toy dog was new 

And the soldier was passing fair, 
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue 
Kissed them and put them there. 

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said; 
"And don't you make any noise! " 
So toddling off to his trundle-bed, 

He dreamt of the pretty toys. 
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song 
Awakened our Little Boy Blue 



15 



226 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

Oh, the years are many, the years are long, 
But the little toy friends are true. 

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, 

Each in the same old place, 
Awaiting the touch of a little hand, 

The smile of a little face. 
And they wonder, as waiting these long years through. 

In the dust of that little chair, 
What has become of that Little Boy Blue 

Since he kissed them and put them there. 

Eugene Field. 



THE PURITANS. 

[This extract from the writings of the great English historian has justly been 
considered one of the finest passages in our language. It should be read with full, 
round tones and in a manner suited to the elevation of the sentiment. The figures 
refer to the corresponding numbers in Part I.] 

THE Puritans were men whose minds had derived a peculiar char- 
acter from the daily contemplation of superior beings and 
eternal interests. Not content with acknowledging, in general 
terms, an overruling Providence, they habitually ascribed every event 
to the will of the Great Being for whose power nothing was too vast, 21 
for whose inspection nothing was too minute. To know him, to serve 
him, to enjoy him was with them the great end of existence. They 
rejected 4 with contempt the ceremonious homage which other sects 
substituted for the pure worship of the soul. 

Instead of catching occasional glimpses of the Deity through an 
obscuring veil, they aspired to gaze full on his intolerable brightness, 21 
and to commune with him face to face. Hence originated their con- 
tempt 4 for terrestrial distinctions. The difference between the greatest 
and the meanest of mankind seemed to vanish, when compared with 
the boundless interval which separated the whole race from him on 
whom their own eyes were constantly fixed. They recognized no title 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 227 

to superiority but his favor ; and, confident of that favor, they despised 4 
all the accomplishments and all the dignities of the world. 

If they were unacquainted with the works of philosophers and 
poets, they were deeply read in the oracles of God. If their names 
were not found in the registers of heralds, they were recorded in the 
Book of Life. If their steps were not accompanied by a splendid 
train of menials, legions of ministering angels 21 had charge of them. 

Their palaces were houses not made with hands ; their diadems 
crowns of glory 16 which should never fade away. On the rich and the 
eloquent, on nobles and priests, they looked down with contempt : 4 for 
they esteemed themselves rich in a more precious treasure, 2 and eloquent 
in a more sublime language, nobles by the right of an earlier creation, 
and priests by the imposition of a mightier hand. The very meanest 
of them was a being to whose fate a mysterious and terrible import- 
ance belonged, on whose slightest action the spirits of light and dark- 
ness looked with anxious interest, who had been destined, before 
heaven and earth were created, to enjoy a felicity which should con- 
tinue when heaven and earth 23 should have passed away. 

Events which short-sighted politicians ascribed to earthly causes, 
had been ordained on his account. For his sake empires had risen, 
and flourished, and 4 decayed. For his sake the Almighty had pro- 
claimed his will by the pen of the evangelist and the harp of the 
prophet. He had been wrested by no common deliverer from the 
grasp of no common foe. He had been ransomed by the sweat of no 
vulgar agony, 4 by the blood of no earthly sacrifice. It was for him 
that the sun had been darkened, 21 that the rocks had been rent, that 
the dead had risen, that all nature had shuddered at the 19 sufferings of 
her expiring God. 

Thus the Puritan was made up of two different men, — the one all 
self-abasement, penitence, gratitude, passion ; the other proud, 16 calm, 
inflexible, sagacious. He prostrated himself in the dust 7 before his 
Maker ; but he set his foot on the neck 14 of his king. In his devotional 
retirement he prayed with convulsions 19 and groans and tears. He 
was half-maddened by glorious or terrible illusions. He heard the 



228 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

lyres of angels or the tempting whispers of fiends. He caught a 
gleam 17 of the Beatific Vision, or woke screaming from dreams of ever- 
lasting fire. Like Vane, he thought himself entrusted with the scepter 
of the millennial year. Like Fleetwood, he cried in the bitterness 19 of 
his soul that God had hid his face from him. 

But when he took his seat in the council, 2 or girt on his sword for 
war, these tempestuous workings of the soul had left no perceptible 
trace behind them. People who saw nothing of the godly but their 
uncouth visages, and heard nothing from them but their groans and 
their whining hymns, might laugh at them. But those had little 
reason to laugh who encountered them in the hall of debate 1 or in the 
field of battle. — Lord Macaulay. 



THE AUCTIONEER'S GIFT. 

THE auctioneer leaped on a chair, and bold and loud and clear, 
He poured his cataract of words, — just like an auctioneer. 
An auction sale of furniture, where some hard mortgagee 
Was bound to get his money back and pay his lawyer's fee. 

A humorist of wide renown, this doughty auctioneer ; 
His joking raised the loud guffaw, and brought the answering jeer; 
He scattered round his jests like rain, on the unjust and the just : 
Sam Sleeman said he laughed so much he thought that he would bust. 

He knocked down bureaus, beds, and stoves, and clocks aud chande- 
liers, 
And a grand piano, which he swore would "last a thousand years ;" 
He rattled out the crockery, and sold the silverware; 
At last they passed him up to sell a little baby's chair. 

"How much? how much ? come make a bid ; is all your money spent?" 
And then a cheap, facetious wag came up and bid, " one cent." 
Just then a sad-faced woman, who stood in silence there, 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 229 

Broke down and cried, " My baby's chair ! My poor, dead baby's 
chair!" 

" Here, madam, take your baby's chair," said the softened auctioneer, 
" I know its value all too well ; my baby died last year; 
And if the owner of the chair, our friend, the mortgagee, 
Objects to this proceeding, let him send the bill to me !" 

Gone was the tone of raillery ; the humorist auctioneer 
Turned shame-faced from his audience to brush aside a tear , 
The laughing crowd was awed and still, no tearless eye was there 
When the weeping woman reached and took her little baby's chair. 

S. W. Foss. 



c 



RHYMES FOR HARD TIMES. 

[The numbers refer to the cuts in Part I.] 
OURAGE, brother! 2 do not stumble, 
Though thy path be dark as night, 
There's a star to guide the humble ; 
"Trust in God, 16 and do the right." 

Though the road be long and dreary, 

And the end be out of sie;ht ; 9 
Foot it bravely, strong or weary, 
"Trust in God, 16 and do the right." 

Perish policy 4 and cunning ; 

Perish all 4 that fears the light, 
Whether losing, whether winning, 
"Trust in God, 16 and do the right." 

Shun 15 all forms of guilty passion, 

Fiends can look like angels bright. 
Heed no custom, 2 school or fashion, 
"Trust in God, 16 and do the right." 

Norman McLeod. 



230 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

THE WEIGHT OF A WORD. 

HAVE you ever thought of the weight of a word 
That falls in the heart like the song of a bird, 
That gladdens the springtime of memory and youth, 
And garlands, with cedar the banner of truth, 
That moistens the harvesting spot of the brain, 
Like dewdrops that fall on a meadow of grain, 
Or that shrivels the germ and destroys the fruit 
And lies like a worm at the lifeless root ? 

I saw a farmer at break of day 
Hoeing his corn in a careful way ; 
An enemy came with a drouth in his eye, 
Discouraged the worker and hurried by. 
The keen-edged blade of the faithful hoe 
Dulled on the earth in the long corn row; 
The weeds sprung up and their feathers tossed 
Over the field, and the crop was — lost. 

A sailor launched on an angry bay 

When the heavens entombed the face of the day; 

The wind arose, like a beast in pain, 

And shook on the billows his yellow mane ; 

The storm beat down as if cursed the cloud, 

And the waves held up a dripping shroud — 

But hark ! o'er the waters that wildly raved 

Came a word of cheer, and he was — saved. 

A poet passed with a song of God 

Hid in his heart, like a gem in a clod. 

His lips were framed to pronounce the thought, 

And the music of rhythm its magic wrought ; 

Feeble at first was the happy trill, 

Low was the echo that answered the hill, 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 231 

But a jealous friend spoke near his side, 
And on his lips the sweet song — died. 

A woman paused where a chandelier 

Threw in the darkness its poisoned spear ; 

Weary and footsore from journeying long, 

She had strayed unawares from the right to the wrong. 

Angels were beck'ning her back from the den, 

Hell and its demons were beck'ning her in ; 

The tone of an urchin, like one who forgives, 

Drew her back, and in heaven that sweet word — lives. 

Words ! words ! They are little, yet mighty and brave ; 

They rescue a nation, an empire save — 

They close up the gaps in a fresh bleeding heart 

That sickness and sorrow have severed apart. 

They fall on the path, like a ray of the sun, 

Where the shadows of death lay so heavy upon ; 

They lighten the earth over our blessed dead. 

A word that will comfort, oh ! leave not unsaid. 



M 



AN OLD VALENTINE. 

Y wife looked o'er a valentine, 

And did not know that I was near; 

She read it over line by line— 
I could not help but hear. 

What was it made my pulses stir, 
And lit the light of days long dead ? 

'Twas one that I had sent to her 
The year before we wed. 

'Twas full of young love's fondest terms, 
Without regard to rhyme or sense ; 






, 






232 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

Possession dulled, and planted germs 
Of wild indifference. 

I listened to the words I heard, 

While shame surprised me with its dart ; 

'Twas long since I had breathed a word 
Of love to that lone heart. 

Then noiselessly I stepped behind 
Her chair, and heard a sob of pain. 

My heart cried out: "I have been blind! " 
And love awoke again. 

I drew her gently to my breast — 

I soothed her, kissed her, called her mine ; 

And all the love once more confessed 
Told in that valentine. 

George Birdseye. 

THE SONG OF THE 5PINNINQ=WHEEL. 

UP in the attic stowed away, 
Out of the light of the golden day, 
All in a cob-web mantle drest, 
Grandma's spinning-wheel stands at rest, 
Turn it round with a motion strong, 
And loud it singeth an old-time song, 
Round and round, 
Round and round, 
Drowsy drowning with a dreary sound, 
Steady motion the spindle keeps; 
Thread runs smooth while the baby sleeps ! 
Sleeps ! sleeps ! 

Turn again and the wheel will tell, 
How happy days to the old home fell, 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 233 

And children played all the cottage o'er, 
While back and forth on the sanded floor, 
Grandma stepped in her golden spring, 
And this is the song that the wheel will sing : 

Round and round, 

Round and round, 
Loudly laughing with a lithesome sound, 
Thread like gold in the sunlight ray ; 
Spindle whirls and the children play ; 

Children play ! 

Turn again and the song flows on ; 
But some of its merriment is gone; 
It singeth now in a sadder key ; 
It tells of the children, one, two, three, 
Boys, fast growing from day and day, 
Soon to wander from home away ; 

Round and round, 
Lazily lagging with lonesome sound ; 
Thread runs slow to the whirling spool ; 
Happy children have gone to school ; 

Gone to school! 

Give the old wheel a few quick turns — 
The kettle sings and the back log burns ; 
The old log cabin looms up to view ; 
Grandpa and grandma, loving, true, 
Wait for the boys to come back again, 
And this is the old wheel's sad refrain : 

Round and round, 

Round and round, 
Softly singing with a solemn sound ; 
Gone alas ! all the children, gay — 
Grown to manhood and gone away, 

Gone away ! 



234 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

One more turn at the droning wheel, 
One more glimpse of the past to steal — 
Boys grown aged, all far away ; 
Cabin fallen to sad decay ; 
Two old graves on the neighboring hill — ■ 
That will do — let the wheel be still ; 
Round and round, 
Round and round, 
Sadly sighing with sobbing sound ; 
Baby, childhood, youth, gray head ; 
Death comes softly and snaps the thread — 
Snaps the thread ! 







LOOKING INTO THE FUTURE. 

H, never sit we down, and say 
There's nothing left but sorrow ! 

We walk the wilderness to-day, 
The promised land to-morrow. 



And though age wearies by the way, 
And hearts break in the furrow, 

We'll sow the golden grain to-day, 
And harvest comes to-morrow. 

Build up heroic lives, and all 

Be like a sheathen sabre, 
Ready to flash out at God's call, 

O chivalry of labor ! 

Triumph and toil are twins ; and aye 
Joy suns the cloud of sorrow ; 

And 'tis the martyrdom to-day 
Brings victory to-morrow. 

Gerald Massey. 



p 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 235 

POOR LITTLE JOE. 

ROP yer eyes wide open, Joey, 

For I've brought you sumpin' great, 
Apples ! Ho, a heap sight better! 

Don't you take no int'rest ? Wait ! 
Flowers, Joe — I knowed you'd like 'em — 

Ain't them scrumptious ? Ain't them high ? 
Tears, my boy ? Wot's them fur, Joey? 

There — poor little Joe ! — don't cry! 

I was skippin' past a winder, 

Where a bang-up lady sot, 
All amongst a lot of bushes — 

Each one climbin' from a pot ; 
Every bush had flowers on it — 

Pretty ? Mebbe not ! Oh, no ! 
Wish you could a seen 'em growin', 

It was sich a stunnin' show. 

Well, I thought of you, poor feller, 

Lyin' here so sick and weak, 
Never knowin' any comfort, 

And I puts on lots o' cheek. 
"Missus," says I, "if you please, mum, 

Could I ax you for a rose ? 
For my little brother, missus — 

Never seed one, I suppose." 

Then I told her all about you — 

How I bringed you up — poor Joe ! 
(Lackin' women folks to do it.) 

Sich a' imp you was, you know — 
Till yer got that awful tumble, 

Jist as I broke yer in, 



w 



236 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

(Hard work, too,) to earn yer livin' 
Blackin' boots for honest tin. 

How that tumble crippled of you, 

So's you couldn't hyper much — 
Joe, it hurted when I seen you 

Fur the first time with your crutch. 
" But," I says, " he's laid up now, mum, 

'Pears to weaken every day;" 
Joe, she up and went to cuttin' — 

That's the how of this bokay. 

Say ! It seems to me, ole feller, 

You is quite yourself to-night ; 
Kind o' chirk — it's been a fortnit 

Sence yer eyes has been so bright. 
Better? Well, I m glad to hear it! 

Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe. 
Smellin' of 'em's made you happy? 

Well, I thought it would, you know ! 

Never see the country, did you ? 

Flowers growin' everywhere ! 
Some time when your better, Joey, 

Mebbe I kin take you there. 
Flowers in heaven? 'M — I s'pose so; 

Dunno much about it, though; 
i Ain't as fly as wot I might be 

On them topics, little Joe. 

But I've heard it hinted somewheres 
That in heaven's golden gates 

Things is everlastin' cheerful — 
B'lieve that's wot the Bible states. 

Likewise, there folks don't git hungry ; 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 237 

So good people, when they dies, 
Finds themselves well fixed forever — 
Joe, my boy, wot ails yer eyes ? 

Thought they looked a little sing'ler. 

Oh, no ! Don't you have no fear; 
Heaven was made fur such as you is — 

Joe, wot makes you look so queer ? 
Here — wake up ! Oh, don't look that way! 

Joe ! My boy ! Hold up yer head ! 
Here's yer flowers — you dropped 'em, Joey ! 

Oh, my God, can Joe be dead? 

David L. Proudfit. 



« KISS ME, MAMMA." 

[The unutterable sadness of this selection calls for the strongest expression of grief.] 

THE child was so sensitive, so like that little shrinking plant that 
curls at a breath, and shuts its heart from the light ! 
The only beauties she possessed were an exceedingly transparent 
skin, and the most mournful, large blue eyes. 

I had been trained by a very stern, strict, conscientious mother, but 
I was a hardy plant, rebounding after every shock. Misfortune could 
not daunt, though discipline trained me. I fancied, alas! that I must 
go through the same routine with this delicate creature ; so one day 
when she had displeased me exceedingly by repeating an offense, I 
was determined to punish her severely. I was very serious all day, 
and upon sending her to her little couch, I said : 

"Now, my daughter, to punish you, and show you how very 
naughty you have been, I shall not kiss you to-night." 

She stood looking at me, astonishment personified, with her mourn- 
ful eyes wide open — I supposed she had forgotten her misconduct till 
then, and I left her with big tears dropping down her cheeks and her 
little red lips quivering. 

Presently I was sent for. " Oh, mamma you will kiss me ; I can't 



238 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

go to sleep if you don't!" she sobbed, every tone of her voice trem- 
bled, and she held out her little hands. 

Now came the struggle between love and what I falsely termed 
duty. My heart said, " give her the kiss of peace;" my stern nature 
urged me to persist in my correction, that I might impress the fault 
upon her mind. That was the way that I had been trained till I was a 
most submissive child, and I remembered how I had often thanked my 
mother since for her straightforward course. 

I knelt by the bedside. "Mother can't kiss you, Ellen," I whispered, 
though every word choked me. Her hand touched mine ; it was very 
hot, but I attributed it to her excitement. She turned her little griev- 
ing face to the wall. I blamed myself as the fragile form shook with 
half-suppressed sobs, and saying, "Mother hopes little Ellen will learn 
to mind her after this," left the room for the night. Alas! in my 
desire to be severe, I forgot to be forgiving. 

It must have been twelve o'clock when I was awakened by my 
nurse. Apprehensive, I ran eagerly to the child's chamber. I had 
had a fearful dream. 

Ellen did not not know me. She was sitting up, crimsoned from 
forehead to throat, her eyes so bright that I almost drew back aghast 
at their glances. 

From that night a raging fever drank up her life, and what think 
you was the incessant plaint that poured unto my anguished heart ? 

"Oh, kiss me, mamma, do kiss me; I can't go to sleep! You'll* 
kiss your little Ellen, mamma, won't you ? I can't go to sleep. I 
won't be naughty if you'll kiss me! Oh, kiss me, dear mamma, I 
can't go to sleep." 

Holy little angel ! She did go to sleep one gray morning, and 
she never woke again, never. Her hand was locked in mine, and my 
veins grew icy with its gradual chill. Faintly the light faded out of 
the beautiful eyes, whiter and whiter grew the tremulous lips. She 
never knew me, but with her last breath she whispered, " I will be 
good, mamma, if you'll kiss me." 

Kiss her ! God knows how passionate, but unavailing were my 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 239 

kisses upon her cheek and lips after that fatal night. God knows how 
■wild were my prayers that she might know, if but only once, that I 
kissed her. God knows how I would have given up my very life 
could I have asked forgiveness of that sweet child. 

Well, grief is unavailing now ! She lies in her little tomb ; there is 
a marble urn at her head, and a rosebush ' at her feet ; there grow 
sweet summer flowers ; there waves the gentle grass ; there birds sing 
their matins and vespers ; there the blue sky smiles down to-day, and 
there lies buried the freshness of my heart. 



S 



WHISPERIN' BILL. 

O you're takin' the census, mister ? There's three of us livin' still, 
My wife, and I, an' our only son, that folks call Whisperin' Bill ; 
But Bill couldn't tell ye his name, sir, an ' so it's hardly worth 

givin', 
For ye see a bullet killed his mind an' left his body livin'. 



Set down fer a minute, mister. Ye see Bill was only fifteen 
At the time of the war, an ' as likely a boy as ever this world has seen ; 
An' what with the news o' battles lost, the speeches an' all the noise, 
I guess every farm in the neighborhood lost a part of its crop o' boys. 

'Twas harvest time when Bill left home ; every stalk in the fields of rye 
Seemed to stand tiptoe to see him off an ' wave him a fond good-bye ; 
His sweetheart was here with some other girls, — the sassy little miss ! 
An ' pretendin ' she wanted to whisper ' n his ear, she gave him a rousin ' 
kiss. 

Oh, he was a han'some feller, an' tender an' brave an' smart, 
An ' tho' he was bigger than I was, the boy had a woman's heart. 
I couldn't control my feelin's, but I tried with all my might, 
An' his mother an' me stood a cryin' till Bill was out o' sight. 

His mother she often told him when she knew he was goin' away, 
That God would take care o' him, maybe, if he didn't fergit to pray; 



240 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

An' on the bloodiest battle-fields, when bullets whizzed in the air, 
An ' Bill was a-fightin ' desperate, he used to whisper a prayer. 

Oh, his comrades has often told me that Bill never flinched a bit 
When every second a gap in the ranks told where a ball had hit. 
An' one night when the field was covered with the awful harvest of war, 
They found my boy 'mongst the martyrs o ' the cause he was fightin ' for. 

His fingers were clutched in the dewy grass — oh, no, sir, he wasn't dead, 
But he lay sort o ' helpless an ' crazy with a rifle ball in his head. 
An' if Bill had really died that night I'd give all I've got worth givin ' ; 
For ye see the bullet had killed his mind an' left his body livin '. 

An officer wrote and told us how the boy had been hurt in the fight, 
But he said that the doctors reckoned they could bring him around all 

right. 
An ' then we heard from a neighbor, disabled at Malvern Hill, 
That he thought in a course of a week or so he'd be comin ' home with 

Bill. 

We was that anxious t ' see him we'd set up an ' talk o ' nights 

Till the break o ' day had dimmed the stars an ' put out the northern 

lights ; 
We waited and watched for a month or more, an ' the summer was 

nearly past, 
When a letter came one day that said they'd started fer home at last. 

I'll never fergit the day Bill came, — 'twas harvest time again ; 

An ' the air blown over the yellow fields was sweet with the scent o ' 

the grain ; 
The dooryard was full o ' the neighbors, who had come to share our joy, 
An ' all of us sent up a mighty cheer at the sight o ' that soldier boy. 

An ' all of a sudden somebody said : " My God ! don't the boy know 

his mother? " 
An ' Bill stood a-whisperin ', fearful like, an ' staring from one to another ; 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 241 

" Don't be afraid, Bill," said he to himself, as he stood in his coat o 'blue, 
"Why, God '11 take care o' you, Bill, God'll take care o' you." 

He seemed to be loadin ' an ' firin ' a gun, an ' to act like a man who 

hears 
The awful roar o ' the battlefield a-soundin ' in his ears ; 
I saw that the bullet had touched his brain an ' somehow made it blind, 
With the picture o ' war before his eyes an ' the fear o ' death in his mind. 

I grasped his hand, an ' says I to Bill, " Don't ye remember me ? 
I'm yer father — don't ye know me? How frightened ye seem to be ! " 
But the boy kep ' a-whisperin ' to himself, as if 'twas all he knew, 
" God '11 take care o ' you, Bill, God'll take care o ' you." 

He's never known us since that day, nor his sweetheart, an ' never will ; 
Father an ' mother an ' sweetheart are all the same to Bill. 
An ' many's the time his mother sets up the whole night through, 
An ' smooths his head, and says : <c Yes, Bill, God'll take care o ' you." 

Unfortunit? Yes, but we can't complain. It's a livin ' death more sad 
When the body clings to a life o ' shame an ' the soul has gone to the bad ; 
An ' Bill is out o ' the reach o ' harm an ' danger of every kind ; 
We only take care of his body, but God takes care o ' his mind. 

Irving Bacheller. 



I 



OUT AT SEA. 

KNOW that I am dying, mate ; so fetch the Bible here, 
What's laid unopen in the chest for five and twenty year ; 
And bring a light along of you, and read a bit to me, 
Who haven't heard a word of it since first I came to sea. 



Its five and twenty year, lad, since she went to her rest, 
Who put that there old Bible at the bottom of my chest ; 
And I can well remember the words she says to me : 
" Now, don't forget to read it, Tom, when you get out to sea." 
1<? 



242 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

And I never thought about it, mate ; for it clean slipped from my head ; 
But when I come from that first voyage, the dear old girl was dead. 
And the neighbors told me, while I stood as still as still can be, 
That she prayed for me and blessed me as was just gone out to sea. 

And then I shipped again, mate, and forgot the Bible there, 
For I never gave a thought to it — a-siiling everywhere. 
But now that I am dying, you can read a bit to me 
As seems to think about it, now I'm ill and down at sea. 

And find a little prayer, lad, and say it up right loud, 

So that the Lord can hear it if it finds him in a crowd. 

I can scarce hear what you're saying, for the wind that howls to lee ; 

But the Lord'll hear above it all — for he's been out at sea. 

It's set in very dark, mate ; and I think I'll say good-night. 
But stop — look there ! Why, mate ; why Bill ; the cabin's turning light ; 
And the dear old mother's standing there as give the book to me ! 
All right ; I'm coming ! Bill, good-by ! My soul's going out to sea ! 

J. S. Fletcher. 

"NO SALOONS UP THERE." 

DEAD ! Dead in the fullness of his manly strength, the ripeness of 
his manly beauty, and we who loved him were glad. 
His coffin rested on his draped piano, his banjo and his flute 
beside it. And as we looked on his brown curls thrown up from the 
cold white brow, on his skilled hands folded on his breast, on his 
sealed lips, of which wit and melody had been the very breathings, 
the silence was an awe, a weight upon us, yet our voiceless thanks 
rose up to God that he was dead. 

Always courteous in manner, kind in word, obliging in act, every- 
body liked Ned, the handsome, brilliant Ned. 

Three generations of ancestors, honorable gentlemen all, had taken 
the social glass as gentlemen, but never lowered themselves to 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 243 

drunkenness ; but their combined appetite they had given as an heir- 
loom to Ned, and from his infancy he saw wine offered to guests at 
the dinner parties, and, when he had been " a perfect little gentleman," 
was given by his father one little sip. 

He grew and the taste grew, and when his father was taken, all 
restraint but a mother's love was taken. 

As the only son of a praying mother, now the church would hold 
him up, now the saloon would draw him down ; now his rich voice 
would join his mother's to swell the anthems of the church, now 
make the night hideous with his ribald songs. So all along the years 
he was her idol and her woe. 

When her last sickness was upon her the mother said to a friend : 

" They tell me when I am gone Eddie will go down unchecked, 
that in some wild spree or mad delirium he will die. But he will not. 
His father created the appetite they gave my poor boy. His disgrace 
is their sin, and my sin, too. He saw it on our table, tasted it in our 
ice-creams, jellies and sauces. For this my punishment is greater than 
I could bear but for the sure faith that God has forgiven me and will 
answer my daily, nightly prayers, and Eddie will die an humble 
penitent. v It is just that I be forbidden to enjoy here the promised 
land, but I know whom I believe, and my boy will be carried 
safely over." 

As death drew nigh every breath was a prayer for " Eddie," and as 
he chafed her death-cold hands the pallid lips formed the words no 
ear could catch, "Meet — me — in — heaven." And his voice, rich and 
full, responded, " I will, mother — I will." 

And as from her mountain height of faith and love she caught a 
sight of that "promised land," with a seraph's smile she whispered, 
"I — thank Thee — O Father," and was gone. 

And his uncontrollable grief made one say to another, "His mother's 
death will be his salvation." 

He covered the new-made grave with flowers, and when others had 
left the cemetery he went back and sat beside it until nightfall, and 
then went to his lone home, and the oppressive silence drove him out 



244 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

to walk. He passed a saloon; some of his old associates^ came out 
and said kind words of sympathy. His soul was dark and sad, and 
from the open door came light and cheerful voices, and he went in. 

Before the long spree was over he bade a crony "Take that old 
book out of my sight." 

That old book! the Bible he had seen his sainted mother reading 
morning, night, and often mid-day, and from which he had read to her 
those suffering, dying days. 

Then a friend of his mother took him to her home and brought 
him back to soberness, remorse and a horror of himself. For months 
he did nobly and became active in Christian work, and refused all the 
urging to "just step in and see your old friends," and we felt there was 
joy in heaven. 

Then he was asked to bring his banjo and sing at an oyster supper 
at the most respectable saloon in town, where " no one is ever asked to 
drink." 

A wild spree was the result, and his robe was so mired he doubted 
if it had been white. And he lost hope, lost faith in himself, and 
worse, lost faith in God. 

Kind arms were thrown about him, and again he was placed upon 
his feet. Very humble, very weak, he tried once more to walk the 
heavenward path. 

"I am very glad to see you so well," I said one day when I met him. 

"I don't know how long it will last," he said sadly. 

"Forever, I hope," I said cheerily. 

"I shall try hard to have it, but there will come an unguarded 
moment — but you know nothing about it." 

Some two weeks after I met a physician. 

"I have a case for you, ladies. Ned is very sick." 

"Has liquor anything to do with it?" 

"No, not at all. He has pneumonia, but his old drinking has so 
ruined his stomach it will go hard with him." 

His nurse told us he thought he would die, and constantly 
exclaimed : " My wasted life ! my wasted life ! God cannot forgive 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 245 

it." He would fear to die, and pray to live to redeem his past ; then 
he would fear to live, and pray to be taken away from temptation. So 
wore on a week, and then he gave up self and grew calm in Christ. 

One Sunday he said his mother was in the room and wondered we 
could not see her, and with a smile on his face, and " mother " on his 
lips he passed beyond. 

As I came out of the house one of his whilom associates, sober and 
sad, took off his hat and asked, " Is it all over ? " 

Impressed with the vast meaning of these two little words, I howed 
and answed back : 

"All over!" 

With a voice full of pathos, he said : 

"The dear fellow is all right now. There are no saloons up there." 

I walked on, repeating to myself: "No saloons up there ! Thy 
will be done on earth as it is heaven." 



THE TIDES. 

IN the golden gleam of dawn, 
See the children on the shore — 
They are playing every game 

Known to childhood's merry lore ; 
In the harbor sails are set 
Heaven's early breeze to win — 
" Tell us, boatman, how's the tide? " 
" Coming in." 

Lovers loitering by the waves 

And they whisper soft and low ; 
Can the little sea-bird hear them 

With its darting to and fro ? 
Lips are meeting in their bliss, 
Tell, us ere we seaward pull, 
"Tell us, boatman, how's the tide? " 
" At the full." 



246 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

Watching children at their play, 

Picture of the olden time ; 
And the blue and sparkling waves 

Ring the same familiar chime, 
Telling tales of long ago ; 
While for childhood's days we yearn — 
"Tell us, boatman, how's the tide?" 
" Past the turn." 

Waiting while the sun goes down, 

Silver hair upon the breeze, 
Gazing lone and sorrow-eyed, 

On the waves of purple seas ; 
Calmly waiting on the shore, 
Till the night of life is gone — 
" Tell us, boatman, how's the tide." 
" Ebbing on." 



A CHILD ONCE MORE. 

[Imitate as nearly as possible the voice of a little child in the three passages 

requiring it.] 

THE doctors said it was no unusual thing in delirium, but it seemed 
strange and pathetic to the loving watchers that the middle-aged, 
careworn man, tossing wearily on a sick bed, should fancy him- 
self again a child at his mother's knee. The green grave far away 
in a country churchyard, where she slept, had no existence as far as 
he was concerned. She had never died, but was with her boy again. 
The many trials of life that had worn those deep lines on his brow had 
all passed from his memory now, and boyish woes and confidences alone 
were on his lips. 

When his weeping wife laid her hand upon his fevered brow, he 
looked up and smiled and called her " mother." The hand that held 
the medicine to his lips, that smoothed the pillow, was "mother's," and 
in all the faces that came and went about his bed he saw but hers, 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 247 

which had been the first his baby eyes had known, and over which the 
dews and snows of twenty years had lain. 

He had forgotten her, oh, so many years ! He had been too busy 
to yearn to lean his tired head upon that faithful, tender breast, and a 
thousand transient worldly things had clouded the image of that kind 
old mother ; but as death's mighty hand set aside those perplexing, 
fretting distractions, all so little now, clear and sweet to his parched 
soul came the memory of an innocent childhood and a mother's love, 
and all at once he knew himself a weary, tumbled creature, sick and 
faint over earth's fevered, muddy draught, and he went back, like 
a little child, to her whose tenderness had never failed him, to drink 
once more of that pure, cleansing stream. 

"I'm sleepy — and — I want — to go — to bed — I've been a — bad boy 
— some — to-day, but — I'll ask God — to forgive — me — and— if — you do 
— I guess — He will — too. Hear — my prayers — mother — I've — learned 
— them — quite — by — heart — now." 

They saw that the end was close at hand then, and his wife made a 
frantic appeal to him to recognize her; but his ear was fast dulling to 
all earthly sounds, and he only struggled to raise himself to his knees. 
They could have restrained him, but he said : 

"Why — I — can't — go — to sleep — without — saying — my prayers. 
I've been — a bad — boy — to-day — and God — would be — angry — 
mother." 

Then they helped him up, and with tender arms supported the 
weakened form, while he knelt with upturned eyes fast dimming with 
death's film, and clasping his hands as a little child by its crib side, 
prayed the sweet old petition : 

" Now I lay me down to sleep, 
I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep ; 
If I should die before I wake, 
I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take." 

And which among us dares to say that the lisping, childish prayer 
had not the power divine to wash away the dust and sin which are 
this sad old world's dark heritage ? 



248 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 



THE IRISH WOMAN'S LAMENT. 

TT N sure I was tould to come till yer Honor, 
J^\_ To see would ye write a few lines to me Pat ? 
He's gone for a soldier is Mister O'Ccnner, 

Wid a stripe on his arm, and a band on his hat. 

" And what'll ye tell him ? Sure it must be aisy 
For the likes of yer Honor to spake wid a pen. 

Tell him I'm well, and mavourneen Daisy 
(The baby, yer Honor) is better again. 

" For when he went off, so sick was the darlint, 
She never hilt up her blue eyes till his face, 

And when I'd be cryin' he'd look at me wild-like, 

And ax, ' Would I wish for the counthry's disgrace ? ' 

" So he left her in danger, an' me sorely gravin', 
And followed the flag wid an Irishman's joy ; 

And it's often I drame of the big drums a batin', 
And a bullet gone straight to the heart of me boy. 

" Tell him to send us a bit of his money 

For the rint, and the doctor's bill due in a wake, 

But sure — there's a tear on your eyelashes, honey, 
In faith, I'd no right wid such fradom to speak. 

" I'm over much triflin'. I'll not give ye trubble — 
I'll find some one willin' — oh ! what can it be ? 

What's that in the newspaper yer foldin' up double? 
Yer Honor, don't hide it, but rade it to me. 

" Dead ! Patrick O'Conner ! oh, God ! it's some ither 
Shot dead! Sure a week's scarce gone by; 

An' the kiss on the cheek o' his sorrowing mither, 
It hasn't had time yet, yer Honor, to dry. 




GEORGIA CAYVAN. 



WEAK CREATURES THEY WHO, WHEN CLEAR CONSCIENCE SPEAKS, 
CANNOT RESOLVE, AND BUILD RESOLVE AS FIRM 
AS YONDER GRIM AND BATTLEMENTED ROCK!" 




BROTHERS MOUNBT. 



THIS MANY-HEADED MONSTER! 

THE ROMAN ACTOR. 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 249 

" Dead ! Dead ! Oh, my God, am I crazy ? 

Shure it's brakin' my heart, yer tellin' me so. 
And what in the world will become of me Daisy ? 

Oh, what can I do ! Oh, where shall I go ? 

" This room is so dark, I'm not seein', yer Honor ; 

I think I'll go home " — and a sob, hard and dry, 
Rose up from the bosom of Mary O 'Conner, 

But never a tear-drop welled up to her eye. 



THE LAST HOURS OF LITTLE PAUL DOMBEY. 

[Among the many pathetic passages in the writings of Dickens this is entitled 
to the foremost rank. It should be read in an easy, fluent style, and with evident 
emotion.] 

PAUL had never risen from his little bed. He lay there, listening 
to the noises in the street, quite tranquilly ; not caring much 
how the time went, but watching everything about him with 
observing eyes. 

When the sunbeams struck into his room through the rustling 
blinds, and quivered on the opposite wall like golden water, he knew 
that evening was coming on, and that the sky was red and beautiful. 
As the reflection died away, and the gloom went creeping up the wall, 
he watched it deepen, deepen, deepen into night. Then he thought 
how the long streets were dotted with lamps, and how the peaceful 
stars were shining overhead. His fancy had a strange tendency to 
wander to the river, which he knew was flowing through the great 
city; and now he thought how black it was, and how deep it would 
look, reflecting the hosts of stars, and more than all, how steadily it 
rolled away to meet the sea. 

As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the street became so 
rare that he could hear them coming, count them as they passed, and 
lose them in the hollow distance, he would lie and watch the many- 
colored ring about the candle, and wait patiently for day. His only 
trouble was, the swift and rapid river. He felt forced, sometimes, to 



250 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

try to stop it — to stem it with his childish hands, or choke its way 
with sand — and when he saw it coming on, resistless, he cried out ! 
But a word from Florence, who was always at his side, restored him 
to himself; and leaning his poor head upon her breast, he told Floy of 
his dream, and smiled. 

When day began to dawn again, he watched for the sun : and when 
its cheerful light began to sparkle in the room, he pictured to himself 
— pictured! he saw — the high church-towers rising up into the morn- 
ing sky, the town reviving, waking, starting into life once more, the 
river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), and the country 
bright with dew. Familiar sounds and cries came by degrees into the 
street below; the servants in the house were roused and busy; faces 
looked in at the door, and voices asked his attendants softly how he 
was. Paul always answered for himself, " I am better. I am a great 
deal better, thank you! Tell papa so !" 

By little and little he got tired of the bustle of the day, the noise of 
carriages and carts, people passing and repassing; and would fall 
asleep or be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense again — the child 
could hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping or his waking 
moments — of that rushing river. " Why, will it never stop, Floy?" 
he would sometimes ask her. " It is bearing me away, I think !" 

But Floy could always soothe and reassure him ; and it was his 
daily delight to make her lay her head down on his pillow, and take 
some rest. 

" You are always watching me, Floy. Let me watch you, now ! " 
They would prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed, and 
there he would recline the while she lay beside him ; bending forward 
oftentimes to kiss her, and whispering to those who were near that she 
was tired, and how she had sat up so many nights beside him. 

Thus, the flush of the day, in its heat and light, would gradually 
decline; and again the golden water would be dancing on the wall. 

He was visited by as many as three grave doctors — they used 
to assemble down stairs and come up together — and the room was so 
quiet, and Paul was so observant of them (though he never asked of 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 251 

anybody what they said), that he even knew the difference in the 
sound of their watches. But his interest centered in Sir Parker Peps, 
who always took his seat on the side of the bed. For Paul had heard 
them say long ago, that that gentleman had been with his mamma 
when she clasped Florence in her arms and died. And he could not 
forget it now. He liked him for it. He was not afraid. 

Late one evening Paul closed his eyes and fell asleep. When he 
awoke, the sun was high, and the broad day was clear and warm. He 
lay a little, looking at the windows, which were open, and the curtains 
rustling in the air, and waving to and fro : then he said, " Floy, is it 
to-morrow? Is she come?" 

Some one seemed to go in quest of her. Perhaps it was Susan. 
Paul thought he heard her telling him, when he had closed his eyes 
again, that she would soon be back ; but he did not open them to see. 
She kept her word — perhaps she had never been away — but the next 
thing that happened was a noise of footsteps on the stairs, and then 
Paul woke — woke mind and body — and sat upright in his bed. He 
saw them now about him. There was no gray mist before them, as 
there had been sometimes in the night. He knew them every one, 
and called them by their names. 

"And who is this ? Is this my old nurse ? " said the child, regard- 
ing, with a radiant smile, a figure coming in. 

Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears at the 
sight of him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own 
poor blighted child. No other woman would have stooped down by 
his bed, and taken up his wasted hand, and put it to her lips and 
breast, as one who had some right to fondle it. No other would have 
so forgotten everybody there but him and Floy, and been so full of 
tenderness and pity. 

" Floy ! this is a kind good face !" said Paul. " I am glad to see it 
again. Don't go away, old nurse ! Stay here ! " 

His senses were all quickened, and he heard a name he knew. 

"Who was that? who said Walter?" he asked, looking round. "Some 
one said Walter. Is he here? I should like to see him very much." 



252 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

Nobody replied directly, but his father said to Susan, " Call him 
back, then : let him come up ! " After a short pause of expectation, 
during which he looked with smiling interest and wonder on his nurse, 
and saw that she had not forgotten Floy, Walter was brought into the 
room. His open face and manner, and his cheerful eyes, had always 
made him a favorite with Paul ; and when Paul saw him, he stretched 
out his hand, and said, " Good-by !" 

" Good-by, my child ! " cried Mrs. Pipchin, hurrying to his bed's 
head. " Not good-by ? " 

For an instant, Paul looked at her with the wistful face with which 
he had so often gazed upon her in his corner by the fire. "Ah, yes," 
he said, placidly, "good-by! Walter dear, good-by!" turning his 
head to where he stood, and putting out his hand again. " Where is 
papa? " 

He felt his father's breath upon his cheek, before the words had 
parted from his lips. 

" Remember Walter, dear papa," he whispered, looking in his face, 
— " remember Walter. I was fond of Walter ! " The feeble hand 
waved in the air, as if it cried " good-by ! " to Walter once again. 

"Now lay me down again," he said; "and Floy, come close to me, 
and let me see you ! " 

Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the 
golden light came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked together. 

" How fast the river runs between its green banks and rushes, Floy! 
But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves. They always said so!" 

Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream 
was lulling him to rest. How green the banks were now, how bright 
the flowers growing on them, and how tall the rushes ! Now the 
boat was out at sea, but gliding smoothly on. And now there was a 
shore before him. Who stood on the bank ! 

He put his hands together, as he had been used to do at his prayers. 
He did not remove his arms to do it, but they saw him fold them so 
behind her neck. 

"Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face? But tell 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 253 

them that the print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. 
The light about the head is shining on me as I go ! " 

The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else 
stirred in the room. The old, old fashion ! The fashion that came in 
with our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run 
its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, 
old fashion — Death ! 

O, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of immor- 
tality ! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards not 
quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean ! — Charles 
Dickens. 



D 



DEATH OF HOPE. 

O you know what it is when the clouds creep onwards, 
And shadow your world you know not why ; 
When tears seem falling amid all laughter, 
And each sound in the air seems a wailing sigh, — 



When you wake at morn still tired, and shudder 

From every hour that hurries past, 
And pray without cause to sleep for ever, 

And long for each night to be the last, — 

When you know that the world has naught to give you, 
Having plucked the flowers that fell so soon, 

That hardly lived through the brief bright morning, 
And you feel the breath of the coming noon ? 

Do you know what it is, when your heart is beating 
Like a prisoner starved in his lonely cell, 

And you long to flee from yourself so weary, 
And the beaten track which you know so well ? 

For you see that your sun is surely setting, 
And leaving your life for evermore j 



254 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

And the gloom is gathering you cannot lessen, 
While youth is closing his golden door ; 

And you know the darkness is coming, coming, — 

The past a failure, the future dead, 
And the present blank as a page unwritten, 

With memory filling the lines instead. 

Do you know what it is, this great reaction, 
The Death of Hope which must come to all? 

The stage may be bright and the actors merry, 
But sooner or later the curtains fall. 

Mary Evered. 



THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

[This selection, written for this volume, should be read with subdued, deep feel- 
ing. The return to the Old Homestead, after years of absence, naturally produces 
profound emotion by reason of old associations and memories. The character 
described is that of an uneducated countryman, yet of tender heart and sympa- 
thetic nature.] 

"Y THAT did you say? Does the ole place look kind o' nat'ral like? 
Wi Seem as it used ter forty years ago an' even more ? 

How can it when I do not hear grandfather's ole clock strike, 
An' don't see any youngsters playin' roun' the kitchen door ? 

The ole-time fireplace we had — no fire now burns there, 
The peg where father hung his hat is broken from the wall, 
The shaky doors an' stairways are a-waitin' fur repair, 
An' the ceilin's overhead are jest ready fur to fall. 

Ah me ! There is the mantel where my mother kep' her switch, 
She didn't mean ter save the rod an' let us youngsters spoil. 
There's the corner where she sat an' did her mendin' stitch by stitch, 
An' her face grew ole an' handsome like with daily care an' toil. 

Full forty years have passed an' gone — long time ter be away ! 
Out there in Californy's mines I dug an' strove fur gold, 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 255 

An' thought that with a fortune I would happen roun' some day, 
An' make the pillow softer fur the dear ones, gray an' old. 

Don't blame me if I kind o' choke an' words stick in my throat; 
Some folks trained to it, don't you know, whose words are never lame, 
Can 'spress their feelin's properly an' do it as by wrote; 
I know I'm awk'ard at it, but have feelin's jest the same. 

Ah, yonder, is the dear ole barn where many an hour I've played, 
O, how the joy uv those bright days in memory returns ! 
An' there's the brook on whose cool banks in summer time we laid, 
An' same ole woods an' hillside where we rambled through the ferns. 

But tell me, where is Uncle Josh — you know he used ter live 
Down yonder — there, I see the roof jest peepin' through the trees — 
What ! he, too, gone ? And all are gone ? No other news to give ? 
While grass upon their mildewed graves is wavin' in the breeze ? 

I see the orchard where we planted trees when I was young, 

But these can't be the trees, though perhaps they've grown so tall ; 

An' pretty birds — where are they all that in the branches sung, 

An' those tame squirrels that would come if once they heard my call? 

A drink uv water? Yes, my throat is blisterin' an' dry — 
Ah, that's the same — God brews it — an' it is the same ole well ; 
Hark ! from the village yonder there's a soun' a-floatin' by — 
I heard it forty years ago — yes, 'tis the same old bell. 

Kind o' silent like wus Sunday mornin' all the country roun', 

No mowers in the meadows an' no hand upon the plough, 

An' the hills an' valleys waited jest to hear that ole bell soun', 

But the people that it called to church — I guess they're not there now. 

Wa'al, yes, my life's been rough, I know — I've had my ups and downs, 
Hev seen the wust uv everything, misfortun's been my lot, 
The world has had some smiles fur me, but fewer than the frowns ; 
Yet where I played in boyhood — O, I've allers loved the spot. 



— 



256 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

You've lived here many years, you say — w'y then maybe you know 
The one I want ter ask about — she wuz Malindy Gray ; 
Skule girls together, like ez not, you were long, long ago — 
Why do I ask ? Wa'al now maybe I wouldn't like ter say. 

I know my love wuz countrified, but still 'twuz warm an' true, 
I tried my best ter tell her, but I think she guessed the same — 
W'y what's the matter — you look queer — Malindy can't be you — 
Malindy Gray — the one I loved — w'y say, is that your name ? 

It is ! an' you're a widder, livin' in the ole homestead ? 

W'y bless my heart — that's mighty strange — you know me now I guess ; 

'Twas for your sake, believe me, that I wouldn't ever wed — 

An' forty years I hev been true — that much I will confess. 

I'm rayther blunt, Malindy, an' perhaps I'm forward, too, 
But s'pose we fix the ole house up 'fore swallers home'ard fly, 
An' all my life that's yet to be shall be a life fur you, 
An' 'neath the roof where I wuz born, there let me stay an' die. 

Henry Davenport. 



SOMEBODY'S MOTHER. 

THE woman was old and ragged and gray, 
And bent with the chill of the winter's day ; 

The street was wet with a recent snow, 
And the woman's feet were aged and slow. 

She stood at the crossing and waited long, 
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng 

Of human beings who passed her by, 
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye. 

Down the street, with laughter and shout, 
Glad in the freedom of " school let out." 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 25< 

Came the boys, like a flock of sheep, 
Hailing the snow piled white and deep. 

Past the woman so old and gray 
Hastened the children on their May, 

Nor offered a helping hand to her, 
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir, 

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses ' feet 
Should crowd her down in the slippery street. 

At last came one of the merry troup — 
The gayest laddie of all the group ; 

He paused beside her, and whispered low, 
" I'll help you across, if you wish to go." 

Her aged hand on his strong young arm 
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm, 

He guided the trembling feet along, 
Proud that his own were firm and strong. 

Then back again to his friends he went, 
His young heart happy and well content. 

" She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, 
For all she's aged and poor and slow ; 

And I hope some fellow will lend a hand 
To help my mother, you understand, 

If ever she's poor and old and gray, 
When her own dear boy is far away." 

And " somebody's mother " bowed low her head 
In her home that night, and the prayer she said, 

Was, " God be kind to the noble boy, 
Who is somebody's son and pride and joy ! " 
17 



258 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

A WHITE LILY. 

THE season of music was closing. Parepa Rosa stepping from the 
private entrance of "The Grand" was about to enter her 
carriage when her attention was arrested by "Please, mi ladi — " 
It was only the shrunken, misshappen figure of little Elfin, the Italian 
street singer, with his old violin under, his arm, but the face upturned 
in the gaslight, though pale and pinched, was as delicately cut as 
a cameo. While the eager, wistful light, in the great, brilliant eyes, 
the quiver of entreaty in the soft Italian voice, held her for a moment 
against her escort's endeavor to save her the annoyance of hearing 
a beggar's plea. 

"Well?" 

The slender brown hands of the dwarf held up a fragrant white lily 
with a crystal drop in its golden heart. " Would mi ladi, please ? " 

" Do you mean this lovely flower for me? " 

" Yes, mi ladi." 

"You heard me sing?" 

" Mi ladi, I hid under the stairs — 'twas yesterday I heard the voice. 
Oh! mi ladi, I could die!" 

The loud plaudits of the world she had just left had never shown 
Parepa Rose the power of her grand voice as she saw it now in those 
soft dark eyes aflame, and in those sobbing, broken words. 

" Child, meet me here to-morrow at five o'clock." And holding 
the lily caressingly and stepping into her carriage, she was driven away. 

It was Parepa Rosa's last night. In a box near the stage sat little 
Elfin like a child entranced. Grandly the clear voice swelled its 
triumphant chords and ran amid the arches with unearthly power and 
sweetness. The slight frame of the boy swayed and shook, and a look 
so rapt, so intense came on his face, you knew his very heart was 
stilled. 

Now the wondrous notes thrilled softly like the faint sound of 
bugles in early morn, and again its sweetness stole over you like the 
distant chimes of vesper bells. Encore after encore followed. The 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 259 

curtain rolled up for the last time, and the manger related the incident 
of the previous night, and announced that Parepa Rosa's farewell 
would be the ballad warbled many a bitter day through the city streets 
by little Elfin, the Italian musician. 

Loud and prolonged was the applause, and at the first pause, sweep- 
ing in with regal grace with the white lily on her breast came our 
queen of song. Queen too, by right of her beautiful, unstained 
womanhood, she stood a moment, and then sang clearly and softly the 
ballad with the refrain ." Farewell, sweet land." Accompanying her 
came the low, tender wail of little Elfin's violin. There was silence 
in that great house at the close. Then a shout went up that shook 
the very pillars. 

Parepa Rosa, God called thee in thy perfect womanhood, but thy 
voice lives in our hearts, and at the last great day it shall be written in 
shining letters on thy name, " Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the 
least of these, ye have done it unto me." — Mary L. Wright. 



JACK. 

HE wasn't a good-lookin' feller — 
The hair on his tough, old hide 
Was a sort o' dirty yeller, 
He limped, too — being lame on one side. 

But a better sort, in his days, sirs — 
More steady, and sure, and straight — 

You wouldn't ha' found in a hundred curs 
(That's to say, of Jack's size and weight), 

And many and many a penny 
He's brought to his master's till ; 

Mac wouldn't ha' swapped him for any, 
But the dog grew old and ill. 



't> fc>* 



He warn't no use for the field no more, 
An' he warn't no good in the ring • 



260 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

His poor old legs being weak and sore, 

And he hadn't no strength to cling ; 
At least, so the publican told me — 

Hob-nobbing, and chatting one night, 
He showed how Jack's teeth and claws was worn, 

And he soon must lose his sight. 
" He's been a good friend to me," says he, 

And many a dollar he's brought me in. 
3 Twas him as paid the doctor's fee, 

When I came near losin' a limb. 

" He came to me first, a pup, sir, 

And many and many a time, 
He's helped me the good wife's bread to win 

When we was both young and prime. 
But he's getting worn out and feeble now, 

He wouldn't sell for a lot ! " 
And then he went on and told us 

He was going to have poor Jack shot. 
Well, I tried to talk down that notion, 

But I found it was no use to crow 
About the old dog's devotion, 

My talking was all no go. 

It's the way of the world, my brothers — 

A cold, hard world, of sin — 
Poor Jack's but a figure of others, 

Who, trying their way to win, 
Are exalted beyond all measure 

By Fortune's fickle hand, 
Next minute cast down forever, 

Wrecks on life's desolate strand! 
While the hearts we prize most dearly — 

Sworn friends of yours yesterday — 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 261 

In adversity prove themselves merely 
The friends of our corn and hay ! 

But I'm losin' the drift of my story — 

Home, through the clear moonlight 
That whitened the streets with its glory, 

Wearied, I trudged that night, 
And turned into bed right gladly 

And slept — how long I can't tell — 
When, clanging and clamoring madly, 

Came shouts, and the sound of a bell. 
And in dashes one o' the neighbors, 

His face lookin' white as flour — 
" Mac's public-house is a-fire ! " shouts he, 
"It'll burn to the ground in an hour." 

I was on the spot in a minute, 

The whole front wall had fell, 
When above the crash and above the roar 

Rose one heart-sickening yell, 
And dashing us right and left, sirs, 

There came the publican, Mac — 
" My child ! Great god ! my child is there ! " 

He shrieked as we held him back. 

Poor Mac, in a frenzy raved to pass, 

'Twas sheer madness to venture in, 
For he couldn't ha' reached the poor little lass, 

For out of the noise and din 
Rose a mass of smoke — came an awful crash — 

And part of the roof fell in ! 
It carried away the bedroom wall 

And left the staircase bare — 
The smoke rose up like a funeral pall, 



262 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

And blackened the moonlit air. 
But our straining eyes, through the dense dark fog, 
Saw something moving there! 

And, yes — it is ! — it is Jack, the dog — 

Crouched low on the crumbling stairs — 
Staunch to his duty, true to the last, 

For Mac's little child is there ! 
He holds her fast in his strong old teeth, 

And clears at a single bound 
The yawning chasm of flame and death, 

And headlong they come to the ground — 
Headlong, on a pile of rotten old thatch — 

Soft as a feather bed. 
And the child ? Why, she'd scarcely received one scratch — 

But the dog ? — ah ! poor Jack was dead ! 

F. M. Stanley. 



THE OLD WIFE. 

[Do not attempt to read this selection unless you can interpret its profound pathos, 
and can imitate the voices of an old man and woman.] 

Y the bed the old man, waiting, sat in vigil sad and tender, 

Where his aged wife lay dying ; and the twilight shadows brown 
Slowly from the wall and window chased the sunset's golden 
splendor 

Going down. 

"Is it night? " she whispered, waking (for her spirit seemed to hover, 
Lost between the next world's sunrise and the bedtime cares of this), 
And the old man, weak and tearful, trembling as he bent above her, 

Answered: "Yes." 

"Are the children in?" she asked him. Could he tell her? All the 
treasures 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 263 

Of their household lay in silence many years beneath the snow ; 
But her heart was with them living, back among her toils and pleasures 

Long ago. 

And again she called at dew-fall, in the sweet old summer weather, 
" Where is little Charlie, father ? Frank and Robert — have they come? " 
"They are safe," the old man faltered ; "all the children are together 
— safe at home." 

Then he murmured gentle soothings, but his grief grew strong and 

stronger, 
Till it choked and stilled him as he held and kissed her wrinkled hand, 
For her soul, far out of hearing, could his fondest words no longer 

Understand. 

Still the pale lips stammered questions, lullabies and broken verses, 
Nursery prattle — all the language of a mother's loving heeds, 
While the midnight found the mourner, left to sorrow's bitter mercies, 

Wrapped in weeds. 

There was stillness on the pillow — and the old man listened lonely — 
Till they led him from the chamber, with the burden on his breast, 
For the wife of seventy years, his manhood's early love and only, 

Lay at rest. 

" Fare-you-well," he sobbed, "my Sarah; you will meet the babes 

before me ; 
'Tis a little while, for neither can the parting long abide, 
And you'll come and call me soon, I know — and Heaven will restore me 

To your side." 

It was even so. The spring-time in the steps of winter treading, 

Scarcely shed its orchard blossoms ere the old man closed his eyes, 

And they buried him by Sarah — and they had their " diamond wedding " 

In the skies. 

Theron Brown. 



264 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 



M 



BORN DUMB. 

Y little love ! My little speechless child ! 

Can I forget my woman's heart and be 
Forever mute to grief, forever mild ? 

Is it not hard to bear the falling rod 
When such an ailment for these baby lips ' 

Divinely suits the policy of God ? 

The lambs that play too long at hide-and-seek 

Have tongues that ask for mothers ; these, I know, 

Learn lovely meanings when the children speak. 
The mother comes from far across the field 

And calls assurance to her anxious child, 
As I had answered had my lamb appealed. 

So with unfeathered blackcaps ; so with things 
Whose tones are pitched too low for mortal ears ; 

They plead, and nature sends them breast and wings. 
But I shall never hear that storied speech, 

That lovely language whose expression is 
Defiance of all rules that man may teach. 

I have brought silence to my husband's knee ! 

And he (O baby, baby, try to speak !) 
So greatly counted on thy mimicry 

Of words his wit prepared to plague thy lips, 
Ready to kiss that rosebud impotence, 

Thy mouth, and garner all thy precious slips. 

"Mother," he used to say, "when I am worn 
In days to come with writing, you shall bring 

This bud of April on your shoulder borne, 
And he shall chatter to my chain, or tear 

My latest lyric, or shall cry to touch 

The raining splendors of your ravished hair, 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 265 

"Until he dwindle and his eyes grow dim, 
And we can worship him before the fire, 
And kiss each other many times for him. 

Then I will have him at my heart awhile," 
(O baby, baby, baby, try to speak !) 
"And watch the fading of his sleepy smile 

"Till dimples cannot follow kisses pressed 
Upon the pouting slumber of his mouth, 
And I restore his beauty to thy breast." 

O husband, husband, and the child is dumb ! 
The lamb outspeaks him, and the day-old thrush — 
How shall I break this news when that you come ? 

Norman Gale. 



OLD JACK WATTS'S CHRISTMAS. 

IT was during holiday week, many years ago, that the ill-fated 
steamship Atlantic was wrecked upon the reefs on " Devil's 
Cradle," within forty feet of the lofty rock-bound west coast of 
Nova Scotia. It was one of the most disastrous of ocean horrors on 
record. The oldest resident of that vicinity is venerable, silver-haired 
Jack Watts, who has just turned his eighty-second year. He is a 
stalwart, hardy, rough, weather-beaten fisherman with a brilliant 
record for bravery. 

" Do I remember that night ? Do I ? You wouldn't ask that 
question, my boy, if you had been here, for if you lived ever so many 
lives you would not forget that awful night through all eternity," said 
he, and the sturdy old man's voice quivered as he paused to clear his 
throat, and his eyes glistened. 

" Well, sir," he continued, " you remarked that this was a stormy 
night when you came in. Pshaw ! this is nothing. Sure there is a 
bit of a storm brewing and a rather stiff breeze, but nothing worth 
noticing. Look out a bit." And as he opened the door a gust of 
wind extinguished the lamp, leaving the room in darkness. 



266 • GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

We walked out toward the bluff. The air was murky, raw, and 
growing bitter cold. Eighty feet below, the waves dashed against the 
rocks, pounding like some enormous sledge-hammer, with a noise like 
distant thunder, and causing the ledge under our feet to vibrate with 
each blow. The phosphorescent foam on the crests of the breakers 
enabled me to dimly see the huge, angry billows tumultuously chas- 
ing each other shoreward, and breaking upon the projecting edges of 
the rocky reef. Far away in the distance there was now and then 
visible a tiny point of light — of some vessel ; so far that it would 
wholly disappear for awhile, and then again come into view. 

"That light is about sixty miles away, and a steamer, likely one of 
the English or French liners," he said. We had reached near the 
very edge of the bluff — as far as it was safe to go — when my com- 
panion pressed my arm and paused. Stretching out his arm and 
pointing with his long, bony fingers, he exclaimed : "Down there, just 
beyond us, — it is only eighty feet from dry land, — you see that dark 
streak in the sea ? That is the ' Devil's Cradle,' and is under water 
at very high tide. It is called that name because the reef is like a set 
of big saws ; the sharp rocks hold a vessel that runs on them, and 
sometimes the sea has beaten and pounded and shook the wrecks, 
very much as a cradle is rocked, until they are torn to pieces. Nine 
have been lost there during my time. 

" But that was not the luck of the Atlantic, which was too firmly set 
in the rocks to be moved, and the waves pounded and broke her in 
two, and after awhile tore her to pieces. But that night set in hard. 
It was cold — bitter cold — and the sun went down in the blinding 
snow-storm, and the wind blew every way with a force that was awful; 
then came sleet and hail that cut your very clothes, and drew blood 
wherever it struck your flesh. All the time the wind was raising and 
the air was getting more bitterly cold. It was so cold that the air 
seemed to sting you, and the wind would whirl you around almost off 
your feet ; it whistled and howled and screeched with a frightful noise. 
I says to my pious old woman : ' Mary Ann, it does seem as though 
hell itself had been let loose to-night;' and says she to me, ' Jimmy, I 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 267 

believe it is — but — Jimmy — hark !' and she and I ran to the window 
and looked out and listened. 

" Well, with all that unearthly uproar of the tempest, you could not 
hear much else, yet we did hear a faint ' boom,' like the sound of a 
cannon. In a minute or two we saw a streak of fire shooting up 
through the snow and hail, and then we knew that the Devil's Cradle 
had, or would have, another wreck. ' God help the poor souls,' I 
cried, and Mary Ann went down on her knees and prayed for them 
and the poor lad of ours — our boy Jamie — who, we thought, was on 

an East Indian merchantman. But — he — wasn't though " and 

the old man's voice was choked into silence. 

" Well, sir," he resumed, " the wife put on a boiler of water, and I 
put wood to the fire. We always do when we think we may have 
good use for it, if some are rescued. Then I ran out in the storm. I 
was a good bit of a strong man then, sir, but I could hardly stand up 
in that gale ; it blew with awful force, and one could not see ten feet 
away, yet I pushed on to just about where we are standing. Another 
rocket shot up, and its track of fire disclosed an awful sight. It was 
all in a minute, and I had to strain my eyes and look under the peak 
of my hat through the blinding storm. There was a great big, splen- 
did ocean steamship driven over the outer edge of the reef; the waves 
looked as though the whole bottom of the ocean had violently heaved 
them up; they were actually like mountains, and they lifted that huge 
steamer up and let it down, bumping over those jagged points of flinty 
rock. 

" Then all was pitchy darkness again, and although I could not see 
anything I kept my eyes in the same direction. In a few minutes 
another rocket shot up, and again I saw that noble vessel lifted up 
almost out of the water by a mighty wave ; astern it seemed caught 
and pivoted on one great point of rock ; then it was wheeled around, 
and as the waters receded the bare, rough rocks seemed like a huge 
jaw, down into which the steamer dropped with a crashing noise of 
broken iron, glass, tackling, and machinery. Loud above all, I could 
hear the smothered but unmistakable sound of women's shrieks and 



268 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

the shouts of men. Then all was inky-black darkness, and the waves 
and winds vied with each other in performing their fiendish part. I 
had hard work to hold my balance, keep my feet, and get to our little 
home. 

" We were up at daybreak, and as the storm abated I joined some 
neighbors and went down to the cliffs. There we saw the noble steam- 
ship hard fast on the rock, split in the centre and strained all over. The 
waves were yet furiously breaking over her ; ice had formed on various 
parts of the deck, bulwarks, and rigging; bodies were frozen stark 
and stiff. All was as silent as the grave — not a living soul in sight on 
board. But few bodies were washed ashore until the next day, and one 
had been thrown up near where I stood. I leaned and reached for- 
ward and drew it in. It was the body of a man ; his overcoat had 
been twisted over the face, and was stiff with a casing of ice. We 
turned the corpse over, loosened the garment, and drew it down, 
showing the face. 

" Merciful God ! it was our Jamie ! As we were afterward informed 
by a shipmate of his, he had planned it to come home and surprise us 
Christmas Day." 

The old man sobbed a moment or two, and then exclaimed : " Yes, 
our Jamie did come home, and he did surprise us, but what a sad sur- 
prise it was. You will not wonder now I remember so well the night 
of the wreck of the Atlantic, when our Jamie came home." 



THE ORGANIST. 

[May be given with organ accompaniment.] 

AT the keyboard still he lingered, 
For a theme by some old master 
Smote his heart, and louder, faster 
Beat it as the notes he fingered. 



'&' 



And the evening shadows creeping 
Round the spot where he w r as sitting, 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 269 

Watched his ghost-like fingers flitting, 
Listened to the music weeping. 

From its tears he sought to borrow 
Solace for his bitter anguish, 
Peace for all things doomed to languish 

In the bleeding breast of sorrow. 

And as rises from the ocean, 

Bright and beautiful, the morning, 

Hill and mead and stream adorning — 
Rose the past to his emotion. 

On its wings the music bore him 

Straight from city, street and alley, 

Bore him to his own loved valley, 
Set the lordly Rhine before him. 

Home he saw, familiar places, 

Vine-clad hills and shining meadows ; 

And from out the deepening shadows 
Crowded long-forgotten faces. 

And he heard the low of cattle, 
And the goat-bells tinkling faintly, 
And the brown bees murmuring quaintly 

To the brooklet's merry prattle. 

And the sound of falling water 
With it brought a vision holy, 
For where turned the mill-wheel slowly, 

Smiled the miller's gentle daughter. 

And in accents soft and tender 

Spake he as in times long vanished, 

Ere by ruthless fortune banished 
From the presence of her splendor. 



270 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

O the rapture of the vision ! 

O blue eyes and silken tresses ! 

What to him the world's distresses, 
What its laughter and derision ? 

Sudden gleams and bursts of glory- 
Lit the hopeless miserere, 
As through midnight dark and dreary 

Rolled the passion of his story. 

Come away, the place is haunted, 
Leave him quietly with his sorrow, 
There shall dawn a brighter morrow 

When his pleading shall be granted. 

Matthias Barr. 



IF WE KNEW. 

COULD we but draw back the curtains 
That surround each other's lives, 
See the naked heart and spirit, 

Know what spur the action gives, 
Often we should find it better, 

Purer, than we judge we should; 
We should love each other better, 
If we only understood. 

Could we judge all deeds by motives, 

See the good and bad within, 
Often we should love the sinner, 

All the while we loathe the sin. 
Could we know the powers working 

To o'erthrow integrity, 
We should judge each others errors 

With more patient charity. 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 271 

If we knew the cares and trials, 

Knew the effort all in vain, 
And the bitter disappointment, 

Understood the loss and gain, 
Would the grim, external roughness . 

Seem, I wonder, just the same ? 
Should we help, where now we hinder? 

Should we pity where we blame ? , 

Ah! We judge each other harshly, 

Knowing not life's hidden force ; 
Knowing not the fount of action 

Is less turbid at its source. 
Seeing not amid the evil 

All the golden grains of good ; 
Oh ! We'd love each other better, 

If we only understood. 



SMALL BEGINNINGS. 

A TRAVELER on a dusty road strewed acorns on the lea, 
And one took root and sprouted up and grew into a tree. 
Love sought its shade at evening time, to breathe its early vows, 
And age was pleased in heats of noon to bask beneath its boughs ; 
The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, the birds sweet music bore ; 
It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore. 

A little spring had lost its way amid the grass and fern, 

A passing stranger scooped a well where weary men might turn ; 

He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the brink ; 

He thought not of the deed he did, but judged that toil might drink. 

He passed again, and lo ! the well, by summers never dried, 

Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, and saved a life beside. 

A dreamer dropped a random thought ; 'twas old and yet 'twas new ; 
A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being true. 



272 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

It shone upon a genial mind, and lo ! its light became 

A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame. 

The thought was small, its issue great, a watchfire on the hill ; 

It sheds its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley still. 

• 
A nameless man amid a crowd that thronged the daily mart 
Let fall a word of hope and love, unstudied, from the heart 
A whisper on the tumult thrown, — a transitory breath, — 
It raised a brother from the dust, it saved a soul from death ; 
O germ ! O fount ! O word of love ! O thought at random cast ! 
Ye were but little at the first but mighty at the last. 

Charles MacKay. 



I 



NELLIE'S PRAYER. 

T'S a month to-day since they brought me 

The news of my darling's death ; 
I knew what it meant when the neighbors 

Whispered under their breath ; 
And one good motherly creature, 

Seeing my Nell at play, 
Stooped down, with her eyelids streaming, 

And kissed her and turned away. 

I knew that my Nell was an orphan 

And I was a widowed wife, 
That a soldier for Queen and country 

Had bravely given his life ; 
That out on the field of battle, 

Under the far-off skies, 
He had thought of his absent dear ones 

With the film of death on his eyes. 

It was there in the evening paper, 
His name was among the dead — - 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 273 

We had won a glorious battle, 

And the enemy, beaten, fled. 
Then they counted the dead and wounded, 

And found him among the slain ; 

God ! had I known when we parted 
We were never to meet again ! 

1 couldn't believe the story, 

I couldn't believe that he — 
My darling, my soldier husband — 

Would never come back to me. 
I had thought of him night and morning; 

I had passed long nights on my knees 
Praying that God would bring him 

Back to me over the seas. 

It all came back like a vision ; 

I could hear the band as it played 
When the regiment marched to the station, 

And the noise that the people made 
As they shouted "Good luck ! " to the soldiers, 

And gave them three ringing cheers, 
While the women, with ashen faces, 

Walked by the side in tears. 

We walked by his side that morning, 

And Nellie was quite elate 
With the band and the crowd and the cheering — 

My Nellie was only eight. 
She never thought of the danger ; 

He had tried to make her gay, 
And told her to take care of mother — 

He wouldn't be long away. 
18 



274 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

He held her up at the station, 

Lifted her up to kiss, 
And then, with her arms flung round him, 

Said to her, softly, this : 
"Nellie, my pet, at bedtime, 

When you kneel at your mother's knee 
To pray to the God who loves us, 

Say a wee prayer for me. 

"I shall think of you in the twilight, 

When the stars come out above, 
And fancy I see you kneeling 

With your blue eye full of love, 
Breathing my name to Heaven ; 

And if, as the good folks say, 
God hears the prayers of the children, 

He'll guard me while I'm away. 

" He'll guard me, and bring me safely 
Back, little Nell, to you : 

There's many a danger, darling, 
He'll have to help me through." 

And the child looked up at her father, 
The tears in her pretty eyes ; 

There was something of shame in her manner- 
Something of sad surprise. 

"You needn't have asked me, daddy, 

I always do that ! " she said ; 
"Don't I pray for you and for mammy 

At night when I go to bed ? 
God loves the little children, 

And answers their prayers, they say ; 
I'm sure that you'll come back safely, 

I'll ask in my prayers that you may." 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 275 

It's only a month since they started. 

We thought when the regiment went 
That long ere the troops were landed 

The force of the war would be spent. 
And so I had taken courage, 

And looked on the bright side first, 
Though now and again I fretted, 

And sometimes feard the worst. 

They took little Nellie from me, 

Took her away for awhile ; 
How could I hear her prattle, 

And watch her eager smile, 
As she counted the days till daddy 

Would be back from the foreign shore ? 
How could I tell my darling 

She would see his face no more ? 

I was left alone with my sorrow — 

Alone in my little room, 
Where the evening shadows deepened 

Into the twilight gloom. 
I had heard the words they uttered, 

I had seen his name on the list ; 
But I sat and peered through the darkness 
, As a sailor peers through the mist; 

I sat like a sleeper doubting 

If she dreams or is wide awake, 
Till the truth came on me fiercely, 

And I thought that my heart would break. 
As I sat in the deepening gloaming 

The child came back again, 
And I picked her up and kissed her 

While my tears ran down like rain. 



276 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

"Why are you crying, mammy?" 

I only shook my head. 
"It's nothing, Nellie," I whispered; 

"Kiss me, and go to bed." 
" Let me say my prayers, mammy — 

Will you hear me say them now?" 
She prayed for her absent father ; 

I listened, but God knows how. 

She prayed to the Lord to bring him, 

Safe and sound and well, 
Back from the far-off country 

To mother and little Nell — 
Prayed that, with her father lying 

In that far-off country, dead ! 
"Now, father's safe till to-morrow," 

She whispered, and went to bed. 

I hadn't the heart to tell her, 

So night after night she prayed, 
Just as she promised her father 

When the last good-bye he bade. 
But the prayer was a cruel dagger 

To me as I sat and heard, 
And my heart was stabbed to bleeding 

With every childish word. 

So a weary month went over, 

Till at last my nerves gave way, 
And I told her to stop one evening, 

As she came to my knee to pray. 
My brain was turned with sorrow, 

I was wicked and weak and wild 
To speak as I spoke that evening, 

And shock the faith of a child. 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 277 

She heard what I said ; then, sobbing, 

Broke from my knee and fled 
Up to her room, and I heard her 

Kneeling beside her bed. 
She prayed in her childish fashion, 

But her words were choked with tears — 
I had told her it wasn't always 

God the prayer of the children hears. 

She prayed that her absent father 

Might come back safe and well, 
From the perils of war and battle, 

To mother and little Nell. 
And, ere ever her prayer was finished, 

The door was opened wide, 
And my darling rushed towards me, — 

My darling who had died ! 

I gave one cry and I fainted, 

And Nell ran down at the cry : 
"They said God wouldn't hear me," 

She told him by-and-by. 
When the shock of surprise was over 

We knew what the miracle meant, 
There'd been a mistake in the bodies, 

And the news to the wrong wife sent. 

There were two of his name in the regiment — 

The other was killed, and when 
It came to making the list out 

An error was made in the men. 
Yet I think as I clasp my darling, 

Would he still be here to-day 
Had I shaken Nell's simple tenet, 

" God listens when children pray ? " 

George R. Sims. 



278 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

BROUGHT BACK. 

SHE wandered alone at midnight, through alley and court and 
street, 
Through the heart of the wealthy city, yet starving for food to eat ; 
Still on, though her feet were weary, and the wintry wind blew keen, 
Whilst her heart was nearly breaking at thought of the " might have 
been." 

Through her mind old scenes are passing, so vivid and quick and clear; 
She can see the stile where Harold first met her and called her " dear;" 
And the old, sweet country village, where she lived in the days gone by, 
And where not a pang of sorrow e'er caused her a tear or sigh. 

Then again does her fancy paint her a picture of that gay scene, 
When the wedding bells rang sweetly, and she was a sailor's queen. 
But the vision melts, and quickly there flits through her haunted mind 
The sight of her love departing, and leaving her sad behind. 

He had gone to his duty bravely, away o'er the salt blue sea ; 
" Oh, God ! " she prayed when he left her, " bring Harold again to me." 
But months went by and he came not, and now two years had fled ; 
She had lost all hope, and mourned him as one who was surely dead. 

She had wed against parents' wishes, they'd renounced her long ago, 
And poverty's strong hand forced her to take to the needle and sew ; 
But she who had loved the country, and thrived in its pure, fresh air, 
Soon pined in the crowded city, penned up in a workroom there. 

Still on did she wander slowly, till, weary and well-nigh spent, 
Into one of the broad recesses on London Bridge she went, 
And peering just over the coping, she strains her eyes to scan 
The place beneath where swiftly the cold, black river ran. 

What horrible thoughts are coming ! They tell her a leap in there 
Will ease her of all life's burdens, its pain and want and care. 



GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 279 

"Only one leap," she murmurs ; "no more to be starved, oppressed; 
May be I shall meet my Herold in the far-off land of rest." 

She sprang on the bridge's coping, and gave just a glance around, 
No one in sight! 'Twas lucky ! But her sharp ear caught a sound. 
' Twas a footstep coming quickly. Should she wait till it passed her by ? 
No, she would plunge that instant. What matter who saw her die ? 

But a voice cries, " Hold ! for God's sake ! " She starts, and falls from 

the ridge, 
Not into the rushing river — not on to the hard, stone bridge ; 
But a man's strong arms have caught her, she is gently raised to her 

feet ; 
She turns, and they both are startled as soon as their glances meet. 

" Harold ! " "Why, Bess, my darling ! " The husband and wife have 

met. 
What pen can describe the gladness such meetings as these beget ? 
Bess hardly believed her senses ; she felt so supremely blest, 
As her weary head lay pillowed on her sailor-husband's breast. 

He told how his ship had foundered, how he managed to reach a shore, 
Where he eked out an existence for eighteen mouths or more, 
Till rescued, he came to England to search for his poor young wife, 
And how he at last had found her, and brought her back to life. 

John F. Nicholls. 



NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP. 

\The Wichita Eagle says that this poem was left at its office by an unknown man 

who came to ask for work.] 



N 



"EAR the campfire's flickering light 

In my blanket-bed I lie, 
Gazing through the shades of night 

At the twinkling stars on high. 
O'er me spirits in the air, 



280 GRAVE AND PATHETIC READINGS. 

Silent vigils seem to keep, 
As I breathe my childhood prayer — 
"Now I lay me down to sleep." 

Sadly sings the whip-poor-will 
In the bough of yonder tree ; 

Laughingly the dancing rill 
Swells the midnight melody. 

Foemen may be lurking near, 
In the canyon dark and deep : 

Low I breathe in Jesus' ear, 
" I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep." 

Mid the stars one face I see, 
One the Saviour called away ; 

Mother who in infancy 

Taught my baby lips to pray. 

Her sweet spirit hovers hear, 
In this lonely mountain brake ; 

Take me to her, Saviour dear, 
" If I should die before I wake." 

Fainter grows the flickering light, 
As each ember slowly dies ; 

Plaintively the birds of night 
Fill the air with sad'ning cries. 

Over me they seem to cry, 
"You may nevermore awake." 

Low I lisp, " If I should die, 

I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take." 

" Now I lay me down to sleep, 
I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep ; 
If I should die before I wake, 
I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take." 




GLADYS WALLIS. 

'MY LIPS ARE PADLOCKED, AND I WOULD NOT LISP THE SECRETS OF THAT 
HOUR, EVEN iF 'TWERE TO HAVE THE LAST WORD " 




FRANCIS WILSON. 

"l DO IT JUST BY ATTITUDE. I'VE GOT A PATENT ATTITUDE — I HAVE!" 



PART VI. 
Humorous Readings. 



BARNEY O'LINN AND THE LEECHES. 

BAD was the wife of Barney O'Lirin, 
Worse did she get, and more sallow and thin ; 
Nothing but taters could Barney obtain, 
Wifie had had them again and again ; 
Sickened was she and one morning did cry, 
"Barney, my darling, I'm sure I shall die." 

Barney was busy, just scratching his head, 

But left his amusement and ran to the bed; 
"Was it dying ye mentioned?" said Barney, the thrue, 
"Don't die till I fetch you old Dr. MacDrue." 

The doctor appeared and went off to the bed, 

Counted her pulse and shook his bald head, 

Then, taking a rickety tub for a seat, 
"Barney," quoth he, "what's your wife had to eat?" 
" Praties, your honor, and salt now and then, 

But it's seldom that same's seen by Barney O'Linn." 
" Barney, some leeches I'll send her to try ; 

If she don't have them soon, she'll speedily die." 

The dozen of leeches made Barney to stare ; 
Tare an ages !" said he, "but they look mighty quare, 
And bottled he's sent them, as true as I'm here, 
But how we're to cook them I've not an idea." 

281 



282 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

"His worship left word, Barney, didn't he, eh?" 

" No, sorra a sentence his honor did say, 
But sure we can't tell how they'll be till we've tried, 
So six shall be biled, and the rest shall be fried." 

Well, Barney biled six with the taters, he did, 
And the other half dozen he fried in the lid. 
"The quare little spalpeens are doing divinely, 
Holy Virgin," said he, "but my mouth waters finely. 
It's long, wifie dear, since you had such a trate," 
Said he, as he brought her a knife and a plate; 
Then he raised her in bed and the leeches he brought her, 
And stood by to wait as a gentleman ought ter. 

Wifie looked pleased, very much, and she smiled 
As she daintily stuck her fork into a biled ; 
Then with great satisfaction the odd little cratur 
She popped in her mouth with a piece of pertater. 
She munched, but her face, it grew longer and longer ; 
The doubt on her features grew stronger and stronger, 
Still the leech with an effort she managed to swallow. 
But a storm of disgust the boiled leeches did follow. 
Barney, who wifie in wonder had eyed, 
Said, "Darling, don't eat em ; try one of the fried." 

Wifie tried two, and by some means or other, 
She bolted them down, but she tried not another ; 
Barney did press her, but still, we must own, 
He wouldn't feel hurt if she left them alone. 
No dinner he'd had, and he thought that his taters 
Would be greatly improved by the fat little craturs, 
So he finished the nine without any more fussing, 
While she, in her heart, the young varmins was cussing. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 283 

But Barney, who wasn't o'er nice in his taste, 
Thought no one with leeches could quarrel the laste. 

The tale of the leeches is pretty well ended ; 
We've only to say Barney's wife quickly mended. 
No doubt 'twas the leeches ; you stare, perhaps grin ; 
"Yes, likely," say you; well, ask Barney O'Linn, 
And he'll tell you when wifie has spasms or screeches, 
He cures her directly by just saying "leeches." 



HOW WE HUNTED A MOUSE. 

I WAS dozing comfortably in my easy-chair, and dreaming of the 
good times which, I hope, are coming, when there fell upon my 
ears a most startling scream. It was the voice of my Maria Ann 
in agony. The voice came from the kitchen, and to the kitchen I 
rushed. The idolized form of my Maria was perched on a chair, and 
she was flourishing an iron spoon in all directions, and shouting 
"shoo," in a general manner at everything in the room. To my 
anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, she screamed, "O! 
Joshua, a mouse, shoo — wha — shoo — a great — ya, shoo — horrid 
mouse, and — she — ew — it ran right out of the cupboard — shoo — go 
away — O Lord — Joshua — shoo — kill it, oh, my — shoo." 

All that fuss, you see, about one little harmless mouse. Some 
women are so afraid of mice. Maria is. I got the poker and set 
myself to poke that mouse, and my wife jumped down and ran off 
into another room. I found the mouse in a corner under the sink. 
The first time I hit it I didn't poke it any on account of getting the 
poker all tangled up in a lot of dishes in the sink ; and I did not hit it 
any more, because the mouse would not stay still. It ran right 
toward me, and I naturally jumped, as anybody would ; but I am not 
afraid of mice, and when the horrid thing ran up inside the leg of my 
pantaloons, I yelled to Maria, because I was afraid it would gnaw a 
hole in my garment. 



284 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

There is something real disagreeable about having a mouse inside 
the leg of one's pantaloons, especially if there is nothing between you 
and the mouse. Its toes are cold, and its nails are scratchy, and its 
fur tickles, and its tail feels crawly, and there is nothing pleasant about 
it, and you are all the time afraid it will try to gnaw out, and begin on 
you instead of on the cloth. That mouse was next to me. I could 
feel its every motion with startling and suggestive distinctness. For 
these reasons I yelled to Maria, and as the case seemed urgent to me, 
I may have yelled with a certain degree of vigor ; but I deny that I 
yelled fire, and if I catch the boy who thought that I did, I shall inflict 
punishment on his person. 

I did not lose my presence of mind for an instant. I caught the 
mouse just as it was clambering over my knee, and by pressing firmly 
on the outside of the cloth, I kept the animal a prisoner on the inside. 
I kept jumping around with all my might to confuse it, so that it 
would not think about biting, and I yelled so that the mice would not 
hear its squeaks and come to its assistance. A man can't handle many 
mice at once to advantage. 

Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the kitchen, and 
asked what she should do — as though I could hold the mouse and 
plan a campaign at the same time. I told her to think of something, 
and she thought she would throw things at the intruder ; but as there 
was no earthly chance for her to hit the mouse, while every shot 
took effect on me, I told her to stop, after she had tried two flat-irons 
and the coal-scuttle. She paused for breath ; but I kept bobbing 
around. Somehow I felt no inclination to sit down anywhere. " O, 
Joshua," she cried, " I wish you had not killed the cat." Now, I 
submit that the wish was born of the weakness of woman's intellect. 
How on earth did she suppose a cat could get where that mouse was ? 
Rather have the mouse there alone, anyway, than to have a cat 
prowling around after it. I reminded Maria of the fact that she was 
a fool. 

Then she got the tea-kettle and wanted to scald the mouse. I ob- 
jected to that process, except as a last resort. Then she got some 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 285 

cheese to coax the mouse down, but I did not dare to let go for fear 
it would run up. Matters were getting desperate. I told her to 
think of something else, and I kept jumping. Just as I was ready to 
faint with exhaustion, I tripped over an iron, lost my hold, and the 
mouse fell to the floor very dead. I had no idea a mouse could be 
squeezed to death so easily. 

That was not the end of trouble, for before I had recovered my 
breath a fireman broke in one of the front windows, and a whole com- 
pany followed him through, and they dragged hose around, and 
mussed things all over the house, and then the foreman wanted to 
thrash me because the house was not on fire, and I had hardly got 
him pacified before a policeman came in and arrested me. Some one 
had run down and told him I was drunk and was killing Maria. It 
was all Maria and I could do, by combining our eloquence, to prevent 
him from marching me off in disgrace, but we finally got matters 
quieted and the house clear. 

Now, when mice run out of the cupboard, I go out-doors, and let 
Maria "shoo" them back again. I can kill a mouse, but the fun 
don't pay for the trouble. — Joshua Jenkins. 



A LOVER WITHOUT ARMS. 

[The figures refer to the corresponding numbers in Part I.] 

A CAPTAIN went 2 to Gettysburg 
And plunged into the fray, 1 
And while he led his brave command 
Both arms 23 were shot away. 

This Captain's name was Peter Field, 

And he was tall and stout ; 
But when he found himself disarmed 

His courage 4 " petered out." 

Now Peter, at a country fair, 
A fair young maid had met ; 



286 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

While in the hospital he sat, 
His heart on her was set. 

Poor Peter mourned 19 his sorry loss, 
Which nothing could replace ; 

He wanted much a brace of arms, 
His maiden to embrace. 

While Peter Field was sorely maimed, 
And far down in the dumps, 

She took occasion to declare 1 
She'd take him with his stumps. 

This manly offer made him weep, 
He was almost unmanned ; 

He told her she could have his heart, 
But couldn't have his hand. 

His hand this maiden could not get, 

For he was incomplete ; 
And so this feat she did perform, 

She took his heart and feet. 

Some lovers say, " Come to my arms ! " 7 
And quick the maiden jumps ; 

But Peter changed the phrase and said, 
" Come/ darling, to my stumps!" 

Long time did Peter long to wed, 
His true and faithful mate ; 

The lovers felt a weight of woe, 
Because compelled to wait. 

The captain had no stocks or bonds, 
No horses and no lands ; 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 287 

And, without arms, he could not take 
A wife upon his hands. 

For keeping books he had a taste, 

Yet had to shun 4 the pen ; 
But if a pension could be had, 

He would get married then. 

The pension came, 2 the wedding, too, 

His fortunes to retrieve ; 
" Please join your hands," the parson said, 

But Peter joined his sleeve. 

Now Peter's joy 18 is quite complete, 

And peaceful is his life ; 
While marriage was a happy stroke, 

He never strikes his wife. 

Henry Davenport. 



BABY IN CHURCH. 

AUNT NELLIE has finished a dainty thing 
Of Hamburg and ribbon and lace, 
And Mamma has said, as she settled it 'round 
Our beautiful baby's face, 
Where the dimples play and the laughter lies 
Like sunbeams hid in her violet eyes : 
" If the day is pleasant and Baby is good, 
She may go to church and wear her new hood." 

Then Ben, aged six, began to tell, 

In elder-brotherly way, 
How very, very good she must be 

If she went to church next day. 
He told of the church, the choir, and the crowd, 
And the man up in front who talked so loud ; 



288 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

But she must not talk nor laugh nor sing, 
But just sit as quiet as anything. 

And so, on a beautiful Sabbath in May, 

When the fruit-buds burst into flowers, 
(There wasn't a blossom on bush or tree 

So fair as this blossom of ours), 
All in her white dress, dainty and new, 
Our baby sat in the family pew, 
The grand, sweet music, the reverent air, 
The solemn hush and the voice of prayer 

Filled all her baby soul with awe, 

As she sat in her little place, 
And the holy look that the angels wear 

Seemed pictured upon her free. 
And the sweet words uttered so long ago 
Came into my mind with a rhythmic flow : 
"Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven," said He, 
And I knew that He spake of such as she. 

The sweet-voiced organ pealed forth again, 

The collection-box came round, 
And baby dropped her penny in 

And smiled at the chinking sound. 
Alone in the choir Aunt Nellie stood, 
Waiting the close of the soft prelude 
To begin her solo. High and strong 
She struck the first note clear and long. 



*&■ 



She held it, and all were charmed but one 
Who, with all the might she had, 

Sprang to her little feet and cried : 
"Aunt Nellie, you's being bad." 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 289 

The audience smiled, the minister coughed, 
The little boys in the corner laughed, 
The tenor-man shook like an aspen leaf, 
And hid his face in his handkerchief. 

And poor Aunt Nellie never could tell 

How she finished that terrible strain, 
But says that nothing on earth would tempt 

Her to go through the same scene again. 
So, we have decided, perhaps 'tis best, 
For her sake, ours and all the rest, 
That we wait, maybe for a. year or two, 
Ere our baby re-enter the family pew. 

Minnie M. Gow. 



WHERE THE MINCE PIE GROWS. 

LITTLE Sam Sugartooth said to himself, 
As he sat by a great big rose ; 
" I wish I could go with a fairy elf 
To the land where the mince pie grows. 
I'd sit all day, in a dreamy way, 

And I'd watch them bud and bloom, 
And I'd eat and eat of the fruit so sweet 
Just as long as my stomach had room." 

Little Sam Sugartooth fell asleep, 

And as sure as the tale I tell, 
The elfins softly round did creep, 

And the boss one said : " 'Tis well." 
With a graceful hand he waved his wand, 

And sleeping Sam arose 
On the elfins' backs, and they all made tracks 

For the land where the mince pie grows. 



19 



290 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

Little Sam Sugartooth opened his eyes 

And he looked with a wondering gaze, 
And he saw 'twas the bakerman making pies, 

And the boss bakerman, he says : 
" Dot's a nice leedle tog unt a olt creen frog 

Unt some drash vat I fount in de streed : 
Shust schop dem nice, mit dose rats unt mice, 

Unt 'dwill do for de next mince mead." 

Little Sam Sugartooth kept quite still, 

But he thought that his sides would bust 
When he saw those bakermen with a will 

Commence on the mince pie crust. 
In a great big trough, with their stockings off, 

In their bare, red, flat Duch feet, 
They tramped that dough, till the boss said: " Ho! 

Dot'll do ; pring de nice mince mead." 

Little Sam Sugartooth watched them close 

As they brought out their rolling-pins, 
And he saw them putting that horrid dose 

Into rusty old worn-out tins. 
But his stomach was sick and his sight grew thick, 

As anyone would suppose, 
And he wished in his heart that he might depart 

From the land where the mince pie grows. 

Little Sam Sugartooth stirred himself 

And he found he had dreamt a dream, 
But he looked around for the fairly elf, 

For the whole thing strange did seem. 
And since that day the folks do say 

That he turns his nose up high. 
And hops like a frog and barks like a dog 

When you offer him fresh mince pie. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 291 



THE PICKWICKIANS ON ICE. 



I "OW," said Wardle, after a substantial lunch, with the agree- 



N' 



able items of strong beer and cherry-brandy, had been 
done ample justice to, "what say you to an hour on the 
ice? We shall have plenty of time." 

"Capital!" said Mr. Benjamin Allen. 

" Prime!" ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer. 

"You skate, of course, Winkle?" said Wardle. 

"Ye — yes; oh, yes!" replied Mr. Winkle. "I — am rather out of 
practice." 

"Oh, do skate, Mr. Winkle," said Arabella. "I like to see it so 
much!" 

"Oh, it is so graceful ! " said another young lady. 

A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her 
opinion that it was " swan-like." 

"I should be very happy, I'm sure," said Mr. Winkle, reddening; 
"but I have no skates." 

This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had got a couple of 
pair, and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more 
down stairs ; whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and 
looked exquisitely uncomfortable. 

Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice ; and, the fat 
boy and Mr. Weller having shovelled and swept away the snow which 
had fallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates 
with a dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvellous, and 
described circles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and 
inscribed upon the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many 
other pleasant and astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of 
Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, and the ladies; which reached a pitch of 
positive enthusiasm when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by 
the aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which 
they called a reel. 

All this time Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the 



292 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and putting 
his skates on with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very- 
complicated and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snod- 
grass, who knew rather less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, 
however, with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates 
were firmly screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his 
feet. 

" Now, then, sir," said Sam, in an encouraging tone, " off with you, 
and show 'em how to do it." 

" Stop, Sam, stop ! " said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and 
clutching hold of Sam's arm with the grasp of a drowning man. 
" How slippery it is, Sam? " 

"Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied Mr. Weller. 
" Hold up, sir." 

This last observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a demon- 
stration Mr. Winkle made, at the instant, of a frantic desire to 
throw his feet in the air, and dash the back of his head on the ice. 

"These — these — are very awkward skates, ain't they, Sam?" in- 
quired Mr. Winkle, staggering. 

" I'm afeerd there's an orkard gen'lm'n in 'em, sir," replied Sam. 

" Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there 
w r as anything the matter. " Come: the ladies are all anxiety." 

" Yes, yes," replied Mr, Winkle, with a ghastly smile, " I'm com- 
ing." 

"Just a-goin' to begin," said Sam, endeavoring to disengage him- 
self. " Now, sir, start off." 

"Stop an instant, Sam," gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affec- 
tionately to Mr. Weller. " I find I've got a couple of coats at home 
that I don't want Sam. You may have them, Sam." 

" Thankee, sir," replied Mr. Weller. 

" Never mind touching your hat, Sam," said Mr. Winkle, hastily. 
"You needn't take your hand away to do that. I meant to have 
given you five shillings this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I'll 
give it to you this afternoon, Sam." 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 293 

"You're wery good, sir," replied Mr. Weller. 

"Just hold me at first, Sam, will you?" said Mr. Winkle. "There, 
that's right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, 
Sam ; not too fast ! " 

Mr. Winkle, stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was 
being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un- 
swanlike manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from 
the opposite bank, — 

"Sam!" 

"Sir?" said Mr. Weller. 

"Here! I want you." 

"Let go,, sir," said Sam; "don't you hear the governor a-callin' ? 
Let go, sir." 

With a violent effort Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp 
of the agonized Pickwickian ; and, in so doing, administered a con- 
siderable impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy, 
which no degree of dexterity or practice could have insured, that 
unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, 
at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish 
of unparalleled beauty. Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him, and 
with a loud crash they fell heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the 
spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his feet ; but Mr. Winkle was far too 
wise to do anything of the kind in skates. He was seated on the ice, 
making spasmodic efforts to smile ; but anguish was depicted on 
every lineament of his countenance. 

"Are you hurt?" inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great 
anxiety. 

"Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard. 

" I wish you would let me bleed you," said Mr. Benjamin Allen, 
with great eagerness. 

"No; thank you," replied Mr. Winkle, hurriedly. 

" I really think you had better," said Mr. Allen. 

"Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle; " I'd rather not." 

"What do you think, Mr. Pickwick?" inquired Bob Sawyer. 



294 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. 
Weller, and said, in a stern voice, " Take his skates off." 

"No ;-but really I had scarcely begun," remonstrated Mr. Winkle. 

"Take his skates off," repeated Mr. Pickwick, firmly. 

The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to 
obey it in silence. 

"Lift him up," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise. 

Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the by-standers ; and, 
beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, 
and uttered in a low but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable 
words : 

" You're a humbug, sir." 

"A what?" said Mr. Winkle, starting. 

" A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An im- 
poster, sir." 

With these words Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and 
rejoined his friends. 

While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sentiment just 
recorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy, having by their joint endeavors 
cut out a slide, were exercising themselves thereupon in a very 
masterly and brilliant manner. Sam Weller, in particular, was display- 
ing that beautiful feat of fancy sliding, which is currently denominated 
" knocking at the cobbler's door," and which is achieved by skimming 
over the ice on one foot, and occasionally giving a two-penny post- 
man's knock upon it with the other. It was a good long slide; and 
there w T as something in the motion, which Mr. Pickwick, who was very 
cold with standing still, could not help envying. 

" It looks a nice, warm exercise, that, doesn't it?" he inquired of 
Wardle, when that gentleman was thoroughly out of breath, by reason 
of the indefatigable manner, in which he had converted his legs into a 
pair of compasses, and drawn complicated problems on the ice. 

"Ah, it does, indeed," replied Wardle. "Do you slide?" 

" I used to do so on the gutters, when I was a boy," replied Mr. 
Pickwick. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 295 

"Try it now," said Wardle. 

"Oh, do please, Mr. Pickwick ! " cried all the ladies. 

" I should be very happy to afford you any amusement," replied 
Mr. Pickwick ; " but I haven't done such a thing these thirty years." 

"Pooh! pooh: nonsense!" said Wardle, dragging off his skates 
with the impetuosity which characterized all his proceedings. " Here ! 
I'll keep you company; come along." And away went the good- 
tempered old fellow down the slide with a rapidity, which came very 
close upon Mr. Weller, and beat the fat boy all to nothing. 

Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves and put 
them in his hat, took two or three short runs, balked himself as often, 
and at last took another run, and went slowly and gravely down the 
slide, with his feet about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the grati- 
fied shouts of all the spectators. 

" Keep the pot a-bilin', sir," said Sam ; and down went Wardle 
again, and then Mr. Pickwick, and then Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, 
and then Mr. Bob Sawyer, and then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snod- 
grass ; following closely upon each other's heels, and running after 
each other with as much eagerness as if all their future prospects in 
life depended on their expedition. 

It was the most intensely interesting thing to observe the manner, 
in which Mr. Pickwick performed his share in the ceremony ; to watch 
the torture of anxiety with which he viewed the person behind gain- 
ing upon him at the imminent hazard of tripping him up : to see him 
gradually expend the painful force which he had put on at first, and 
turn slowly round on the slide, with his face towards the point from 
which he started; to contemplate the playful smile which mantled on 
his face when he had accomplished the distance, and the eagerness 
with which he turned round when he had done so, and ran after his 
predecessor, his black gaiters tripping pleasantly through the snow, 
and his eyes beaming cheerfulness and gladness through his spectacles. 
And when he was knocked down (which happened upon the average 
every third round), it was the most invigorating sight that could pos- 
sibly be imagined, to behold him gather up his hat, gloves and hand- 



296 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

kerchief with a glowing countenance, and resume his station in the 
rank with an ardor and enthusiasm which nothing could abate. 

The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest, the 
laughter was at the loudest, when a sharp, smart crack was heard. 
There was a quick rush towards the bank, a wild scream from the 
ladies and a shout from Mr. Tupman. A large mass of ice disap- 
peared, the water bubbled up over it, and Mr. Pickwick's hat, gloves 
and handkerchief Were floating on the surface; and this was all of 
Mr. Pickwick that anybody could see. 

Dismay and anguish were depicted on every countenance ; the 
males turned pale, and the females fainted ; Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. 
Winkle grasped each other by the hand, and gazed at the spot, where 
their leader had gone down, with frenzied eagerness ; while Mr. Tup- 
man, by way of rendering the promptest assistance, and at the same 
time conveying to anyperson who might be within hearing the clearest 
possible notion of the catastrophe, ran off across the country at 
his utmost speed, screaming "Fire!" with all his might and 
main. 

It was at this very moment, when old Wardle and Sam Weller were 
approaching the hole with cautious steps, and Mr. Benjamin Allen 
was holding a hurried consultation with Mr. Bob Sawyer on the 
advisibility of bleeding the company generally, as an improving little 
bit of professional practice, — it was at this very moment that a face, 
head and shoulders emerged from beneath the water, and disclosed 
the features and spectacles of Mr. Pickwick. 

" Keep yourself up for an instant, for only one instant," bawled Mr. 
Snodgrass. 

" Yes — do : let me implore you — for my sake," roared Mr. Winkle, 
deeply affected. The adjuration was rather unnecessary ; the pro- 
bability being, that, if Mr. Pickwick had not decided to keep himself 
up for anybody else's sake, it would have occurred to him that he 
might as well do so for his own. 

" Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?" said Wardle. 

" Yes — certainly," replied Mr. Pickv/ick, wringing the water from 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 297 

his head and face, and gasping for breath. " I fell upon my back. I 
couldn't get on my feet at first." 

The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick's coat as was yet visible 
bore testimony to the accuracy of this statement ; and, as the fears of 
the spectators were still further relieved by the fat boy's suddenly 
recollecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep, 
prodigies of valor were performed to get him out. After a vast quan- 
tity of splashing and cracking and struggling, Mr. Pickwick was at 
length fairly extricated from his unpleasant situation, and once more 
stood on dry land. 

Mr. Pickwick was wrapped up, and started off for home, present- 
ing a singular phenomenon of an elderly gentleman dripping wet, and 
without a hat, with his arms bound down to his sides, skimming over 
the ground without any clearly-defined purpose, at the rate of six 
good English miles an hour. — Charles Dickens. 



A TUXEDO ROMANCE. 

) f I AW AS at Tuxedo — let me see — 
1 In late September, long ago ; 
Yes, eighteen hundred eighty-three. 
But how time flies ; and yet I know 
It's nine years since I passed my nights 

Here at Tuxedo — filled my glass 
Of life with pleasures and delights, 
And let some golden chances pass. 

For they were golden, if we count 

An opportunity to wed 
A stunning girl, and wedding mount 

The social scale. Who was it said — 
And said it wisely, if he knew it? — 

" Ambition is a dangerous tool, 
When used too freely we may rue it, 

By sovereign, or sage or fool." 



298 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 




In those days Gertrude was a queen, 

A social queen, and winsome, too. 
Her hair was brown, with just a sheen 

Of gold and amber shining through, 
And how we flirted! We had met 

At Newport in the busy whirl 
Which July brings. I liked her set ; 

'Twas ultra — and I liked the girl. 

I more than liked her. Now it seems 

' Twas love's first dawning ; I was young, 
And there was time for golden dreams. 

We drove, we chatted, danced and sung 
Together, for the season's close 

Was well upon us. Butterflies 
And moths alike, the whole world knows, 

Will seek the bright and fairest skies 

Society had turned its back 

On rare Tuxedo ; but we stayed, 
And certainly there seemed no lack 

Of pleasure, for she had delayed 
Her trip to London, where with rage 

Her father waited. Then, one day— 
To fill life's darkest, saddest page — 

She sobbed, and sobbing went away. 

We corresponded every week, 

Such letters that I wonder now 
The steamer did not spring a leak, 

Scorched and consumed from stern to prow. 
They burned with passion and with love ; 

They vowed that while our lives should last 
We'd be as true as stars above, 

And all such nonsense. Now 'tis past. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 299 

Her letters stopped ; I sought the whirl 

Of social pleasures ; then for spite 
I wooed and wed another girl. 

I did not half deserve the bright 
And happy life she brought me. So 

'Twas not until to-night I found 
Myself once more within the flow 

Of Fashion's set and Fashion's sound. 

I waltzed once with my partner's wife, 

Then in an alcove by the door — 
My veins seemed filled with fresh, new life — 

I saw a face I'd known before — 
'Twas Gertrude. Springing to her side 

I poured forth words of passion, then 
This girl, who should have been my bride, 

Said: "Jack, you're just like other men, 

And I like other women, too. 

Once we were foolish, long ago, 
But, really, I supposed you knew 

'Twas only a flirtation ; so 
You see I made the best of fate, 

And married quite another one. 
Dear Jack, I fear you've come too late — 

But let me introduce my son." Albert Hardy. 



BOOH ! 

[Read at the Literary Congress in Chicago, Children's Day.] 

ON afternoons, when baby boy has had a splendid nap 
And sits, like any monarch on his throne in nurse's lap, 
In this peculiar wise I hold my 'kerchief to my face, 
And cautiously and quietly I move about the place ; 
Then, with a cry, I suddenly expose my face to view, 
And you should hear him laugh and crow when I say "Booh!" 



300 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

Sometimes that rascal tries to make believe that he is scared, 
And, really, when I first began, he stared and stared and stared ; 
And then his under lip came out and further out it came, 
Till mamma and the nurse agreed it was a " cruel shame." 
But now what does the same wee, toddling, lisping baby do 
But laugh and kick his little heels when I say "Booh ! " 

He laughs and kicks his little heels in rapturous glee, and then 
In shrill, despotic treble bids me "do it all aden!" 
And I — of course I do it for, as his progenitor, 
It is such pretty, pleasant play as this that I am for! 
And it is, oh, such fun ! and I am sure that I shall rue 
The time when we are both too old to play the game of " Booh! " 

Eugene Field. 

AWFULLY LOVELY PHILOSOPHY. 

A FEW days ago a Boston girl who had been at the School 
of Philosophy at Concord, arrived in Brooklyn, on a visit to a 
seminary chum. After canvassing thoroughly the fun and 
gum-drops that made up their education in the seat of learning at 
which their early scholastic efforts were made, the Brooklyn girl 
began to inquire the nature of the Concord entertainment. 

" And so you are taking lessons in philosophy ! How do you 
like it?" 

" Oh, it's perfectly lovely ! It's about science, you know, and we 
all just dote on science." 

" It must be nice. What is it about?" 

" It's about molecules as much as anything else, and molecules are 
all just too awfully nice for anything. If there's anything I really 
enjoy it's molecules." 

" Tell me about them, my dear. What are molecules ?" 

" Oh, molecules ! They are little wee things, and it takes ever so 
many of them. They are splendid things. Do you know there ain't 
anything but what's got molecules in it. And Mr. Cook is just as 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 301 

sweet as he can be, and Mr. Emerson, too. They explain everything 
so beautifully." 

" How I'd like to go there ! " said the Brooklyn girl, enviously. 

" You'd enjoy it ever so much. They teach protoplasm, too, and 
if there is one thing perfectly heavenly, it's protoplasm. I really don't 
know which I like best, protoplasm or molecules." 

" Tell me about protoplasm. I know I should adore it." 

" 'Deed, you would. It's just too sweet to live. You know it's 
about how things get started, or something of that kind. You ought 
to hear Mr. Emerson tell about it. It would stir your very soul. The 
first time he explained about protoplasm there wasn't a dry eye in 
the house. We named our hats after him. This is an Emerson hat. 
You see the ribbon is drawn over the crown and caught with a 
buckle and a bunch of flowers. Then you turn up the side with a 
spray of forget-me-nots. Ain't it just too sweet? All the girls in 
the school have them." 

" How exquisitely lovely ! Tell me some more science." 

" Oh, I almost forgot about differentiation. I am really and truly posi- 
tively in love with differentiation. It's different from molecules and 
protoplasm, but it's every bit as nice. And Mr. Cook ! You should 
hear him go on about it. I really believe he's perfectly bound up in it. 
This scarf is the Cook scarf. All the girls wear them, and we named them 
after him, just on account of the interest he takes in differentiation." 

" What is it, anyway ? " 

" This is mull, trimmed with Languedoc lace " 

" I don't mean that — that other." 

" Oh, differentiation ! Ain't it sweet? It's got something to do 
with species. It's the way you tell one hat from another, so you'll 
know which is becoming. And we learn all about ascidians, too. 
They are the divinest things ! I'm absolutely enraptured with ascid- 
ians. If I only had an ascidian of my own! I wouldn't ask any- 
thing else in the world." 

" What do they look like, dear ? Did you ever see one ? " asked 
the Brooklyn girl, deeply interested. 



302 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

" Oh, no ; nobody ever saw one except Mr. Cook and Mr. Emer- 
son ; but they are something like an oyster with a reticule hung on 
its belt. I think they are just heavenly." 

"Do you learn anything else besides?" 

" Oh, yes. We learn about common philosophy and logic, and 
those common things like metaphysics ; but the girls don't care any- 
thing about those. We are just in ecstacies over differentiations and 
molecules, and Mr. Cook and protoplasms, and ascidians and Mr. 
Emerson, and I really don't see why they put in those vulgar 
branches. If anybody, beside Mr. Cook and Mr. Emerson, had done 
it, we should have told him to his face that he was too terribly, 
awfully mean." 

And the Brooklyn girl went to bed that night in the dumps, 
because fortune had not vouchsafed her the advantages enjoyed by 
her friend. 



"I 



<< WASH DOLLY UP LIKE THAT." 

[Child dialect.] 

'LL be the goodest little girl 
That ever you did see, 
If you'll let me take my dolly 
To church with you and me, 
It's too drefful bad to leave her 

When we's all gone away ; 
Oh ! Cosette will be so lonesome 
To stay at home all day." 

'Twas such a pleading pair of eyes 

And winsome little face 
That mamma couldn't well refuse, 

Though church was not the place 
For dolls or playthings she well knew, 

Still mamma's little maid 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 303 

Was always so obedient 
She didn't feel afraid. 

No mouse was ever half so still 
As this sweet little lass, 

Until the sermon was quite through- 
Then this did come to pass : 

A dozen babies (more or less) 
Dressed in long robes of white 

Were brought before the altar rail — - 
A flash of heaven's own light. 

Then Mabel stood upon the seat, 

With dolly held out straight, 
And this is what the darling said : 

" Oh ! minister, please to wait, 
And wash my dolly up like that — 

Her name it is Cosette." 
The "minister" smiled and bowed his head ; 

But mamma blushes yet. 



I 



PROOF POSITIVE. 

STEPPED into my room one day 
And saw some children there at play. 
I sought my little girl and found her 
With half a dozen youngsters round her; 
And from the way she slapped her rule, 
I knew that they were "playing school." 

I gave my little girl a kiss — 
A pleasure that I never miss. 

A murmur through the school-room ran, 

A smile pervaded every feature, 
" He must be a committeeman ! " 

They loud exclaimed — " he kissed the teacher ! " 



304 HUMOROUS READINGS. 



I 



THE SONG OF THE PRINTING PRESS. 

[Written expressly for this Volume] 

'M a king among men, and no monarch of old, 

Whose valorous deeds to the world have been told, 
Ever ruled in a kingdom so wide as my own, 
Or graced with his purple so mighty a throne. 



From the warm brain of genius I sprang at a bound, 
With bolts, screws and pinions, and cylinders round, 
Ink-fountains and cranks, mighty levers and rings, 
Wide feed-boards and buffer- wheels, gear-wheels and springs. 

I have pulleys and rollers, belts, grippers and flies — 
No finer machinery man's brain could devise ; 
They made me with hammer, file, chisel and fire — 
Though I go night and day, yet my wheels never tire. 

In each crank, in each spring, in each wheel is a thought, 
And into cold iron man's mind has been wrought ; 
There is life in the crank, in the spring, in the wheel ; 
There is brain in the levers and blood in the steel. 

Though silent and dead to all eyes I may seem, 

I start into life at the hiss of the steam ; 

My axles are oiled and my clinders fleet, 

My dizzy wheels whirl and my wild pulses beat. 

Like the snowflakes descending in clouds from the sky, 
The fresh-printed sheets from my deft fingers fly ; 
They rustle, they flutter, they drop thick and fast 
As leaves from the trees in the hurricane's blast. 

I print what I get — telegraphic despatches, 
Births, weddings, elopments, divorces and matches ; 
Things wondrous and witty, things foolish and wise — 
It is said that I've even been known to print lies. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 305 

I know all the news and I tell it to you — 
Frauds, forgeries, murders, and politics, too ; 
Ball matches and accidents, weather reports, 
And naughty flirtations at summer resorts. 

Mrs. Snooks made a call, and the rich Mrs. Scroggs 
Gave a party and didn't invite Mrs. Noggs ; 
Two dogs had a fight, and the Smiths had a row — 
I have printed it all, and the world knows it now. 

I print the price-lists of the market in stocks, 
Long columns of gossip and very stale jokes ; 
Queer stories of tadpoles and spiders and leeches, 
Quack remedies, lost curs, and Congressmen's speeches. 

One man is just crazy to try matrimony, 
Provided the widow has plenty of money ; 
Another's so lonely he must advertise, 
For a lovely brunette with bewitching black eyes. 

I tell what is wanted, and where you may look 
For a trim dancing master, a nursemaid or cook, 
A repairer of bric-a-brac, shoes and old clothes, 
Or a genteel professor of corns and sore toes. 

But these common achievements 'tis time to dismiss, 
For my type has a purpose far higher than this ; 
I create the opinion that rules ev'ry nation, 
And grandly lead onward all civilization. 

Old Vulcan, the blacksmith, grim, sooty and dire, 
Forged hot thunderbolts with his anvil and fire, 
And the bolts from Olympus like lightning were hurled 
By Jupiter Tonans, the king of the world. 

When my forces were forged into being and birth, 
I received for my kingdom the realms of the earth, 
20 



306 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

And was clothed with a sway that was destined to prove 
Far grander than that of Olympian Jove. 

I send forth the Bible, the classic, the story ; 

I tell of brave deeds and the patriot's glory, 

I issue great thoughts and they fly like the light, 

That shoots its sharp gleams through the gloom of the night. 

To the millions who read I'm commissioned to state 
What histories tell and what fictions narrate, 
What science proclaims, what theology preaches, 
What invention finds out, what philosophy teaches. 

Now my noise is the song which some great poet sings, 
Now the burning oration that thunders and rings, 
Now the sweet tale of love, now the advocate's plea, 
Now the message that flashes from under the sea. 

Make the furnaces hot, and the steam — crowd it on 
Till my mission is ended, my laurels are won, 
And the world, all renewed, shall applaud and confess 
It was fashioned anew by the swift printing press. 

Henry Davenport. 



POMONA DESCRIBES HER BRIDAL TRIP. 

N' 



i* I OW, then, says Jone, after he'd been thinkin' a while, ' there'll 
be no more foolin' on this trip. To-morrow we'll go to 
father's, an' if the old gentleman has got any money on the 
crops, which I expect he has by this time, I'll take up a part of my 
share, an' we'll have a trip to Washington an' see the President, an' 
Congress, an' the White House, an' the lamp always a-burnin' before 
the Supreme Court, an' — ' 

"' Don't say no more,' says I ; ' it's splendid !' 

" So early the nex' day we goes off jus' as fast as trains would take 
us to his father's, an' we hadn't been there more'n ten minutes before 
Jone found out he had been summoned on a jury. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 307 

" ' When must you go ? ' says I, when he come, lookin' kind o' pale, 
to tell me this. 

'"Right off,' says he. 'The court meets this mornin'. If I don't 
hurry up I'll have some of 'em after me. But I wouldn't cry about 
it. I don't believe the case'll last more'n a day.' 

" The old man harnessed up an' took Jone to the court house, an' 
I went too, for I might as well keep up the idea of a bridal trip as 
not. I went up into the gallery an' Jone he was set among the other 
men in the jury-box. 

" The case was about a man named Brown, who married the half 
sister of a man named Adams, who afterward married Brown's mother 
an' sold Brown a house he had got from Brown's grandfather in trade 
for half a grist mill, which the other half of it was owned by Adams's 
half sister's first husband, who left all his property to a Soup Society, 
in trust, till his son should come of age, which he never did, but left 
a will which gave his half of the mill to Brown ; an' the suit was 
between Brown an' Adams an' Brown again, an' Adams's half-sister, 
who was divorced from Brown, an' a man named Ramsey, who had 
put up a new over-shot wheel to the grist mill. 

"That case wasn't a easy one to understand, as you may see for 
yourselves, an' it didn't get finished that day. They argyed over it a 
full week. When there wasn't no more witnesses to carve up, one 
lawyer made a speech, an' he set that crooked case so straight that 
you could see through it from the over-shot wheel clean back to 
Brown's grandfather. Then another feller made a speech an' he set 
the whole thing up another way. It was jus' as clear to look through 
but it was another case altogether, no more like the other one than a 
apple pie is like a mug o' cider. An' then they both took it up, an' 
they swung it around between 'em till it was all twisted an' knotted 
an' wound up an' tangled worse than a skein o' yarn in a nest o' 
kittens, an' then they give it to the jury. 

"Well, when them jurymen went out there wasn't none of 'em, as 
Jone told me afterward, as knew whether it was Brown or Adams as 
was dead, or whether the mill was to grind soup or to be run by soup 



308 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

power. Of course, they couldn't agree. Three of 'em wanted to 
give a verdict for the boy that died, two of 'em was for Brown's 
grandfather, an' the rest was scattered, some goin' in for damages to 
the witnesses, who ought to get somethin' for havin' their characters 
ruined. Jone he jus' held back ready to jine the other eleven as soon 
as they'd agree. But they couldn't do it, an' they was locked up 
three days an' four nights. You'd better believe I got pretty wild 
about it, but I come to court every day an' waited, bringin' somethin' 
to eat in a basket. Jone never had no chance to jine in with the other 
fellers, for they couldn't agree, an' they were all discharged at last. 
So the whole thing went for nothin'. When Jone come out he looked 
like he'd been drawn through a pump-log, and he says to me, tired 
like: 

" ' Let's go home an' settle down ! ' " — Frank R. Stockton. 



CAUSE AND EFFECT. 

A LITTLE dinner party was in progress down below, 
While above stairs, in the nursery, was a lovely little Fred. 
" There is nothing left to do !" he sighed, " that clock is very 
slow, 
And when nurse does finish supper she will put me straight 
to bed ! 

" Now, if they'd let me play with that! " — he looked up on the wall, 
And gently pushed a chair along before him as he spoke, 

" I really would not mischief it, or worry it at all, 

And I feel quite pretty certain I could mend it if it broke ! " 

About five minutes after this the door bell rang, and low 

The servant to the master whispered, " Sir, he's at the door — 

The messenger you rang for." Replied the master, " No ; 

He's made some stupid blunder," and he thought of it no more. 

Five minutes passed ; a sound of wheels ; the servant came to say, 
" The carriage is awaiting, sir — belike its come too early, 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 309 

" But the man is very positive you rang for a cuppay." 

" I didn't!" said the master, and his look and tone were surly. 

In the same mysterious manner a policeman came and went, 
And a doubtful look was growing now upon the master's face, 

An idea had occurred to him of what the mystery meant, 
And he was just preparing to follow out the trace — 

When lo ! a burst of thunder sound — the engine drew up proudly, 
Close followed by the hose cart, and dire confusion grew, 

But the master from his doorstep by shouting wildly, loudly, 
Was in time to stop the deluge, and 'twas all that he could do. 

Straightway to the alarm he went and captured Master Freddy, 
Who sobbed " I only give it such a little, little jerk! 

I didn't mean to start it — just to try if it was ready ; 
I wanted — all I wanted was to see if it would work." 



I 



THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN. 

'M a broken-hearted Deutscher, 

Vot's villed mit crief und shame, 
I dells you vot der drouple ish : 
I doosn't know my name. 



You dinks dis fery vunny, eh ? 

Ven you der schtory hear, 
You vill not vonder den so mooch, 

It vas so schtrange and queer. 

Mine moder had dwo leedle twins ; 

Dey vas me und mine broder : 
Ve lookt so fery mooch alike, 

No von knew vich vrom toder. 



310 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 

Von off der poys was " Yawcob," 
Und " Hans " der oder's name : 

But den it made no tifferent : 
Ve both got called der same. 

Veil ! von off us got tead — 
Yaw, Mynheer, dot ish so ! 

But vedder Hans or Yawcob, 
Mine moder she don't know. 

Und so I am in drouples : 
I gan't kit droo mine hed 

Vedder I'm Hans vot's lifing, 
Or Yawcob vot is tead ! 



Charles F. Adams. 



MRS. SMART LEARNS HOW TO SKATE. 

DON'T you think skating is dreadful good exercise? I do; and 
I've been trying of it lately, so that I have as good a knowl- 
edge of how it operates as anybody else. 

Joshua said I was rather old to go into such childish bizness : but 
I don't see no airthly reason why an old married woman shouldn't 
enjoy herself if she can. Goodness knows, most of us has trouble 
enough to put up with — if we have a husband and children and hens 
and pigs and things. And if we can git any enjoyment out of life, I 
say we'd orter. I calkulate to, myself; and I'd like to see anybody 
hender me ! It'll take more'n Joshua Smart ! He never growed big 
enuff! No, sir ! not by a long chalk ! 

All the folks round about here has gone into skating. There hain't 
nobody but what's had a spell at it. Even old Grandmarm Smith, 
that's gone with two canes this dozen years— she's tried it, and fell 
down, and smashed her specs, and barked her nose all to flinchers ; 
and old Deacon Sharp, that's been blind ever since Wiggin's barn was 
burnt, he's got to be quite a powerful skater. Only you have to clear 
the track when you see him coming, 'cause he don't turn out for no- 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 311 

body nor nothing. And he's apt to git to using big words, if he 
happens to hit against anything. The other day he skated against a 
tall stump in the millpond, and a madder man you never seed. He 
took it for somebody standing there; and, if he is a deacon, I'm 
ready to give my Bible oath that he came at it, and hit it several licks 
with his fist, afore he found out that it wasn't no one. 

All the wimmen folks has been out on the ice this fall. I never 
seed such a turnout afore. The way they've done, they've cooked 
up enuff Satterdays to last all through the next week, and then they've 
skated, and their husbands has staid at home, and swore and eat cold 
vittles. 

Law sake! how things have changed since I was a gal ! The 
world is gitting more and more civilized every day. In a thorsand 
years from now, at the present rate of getting along, this airth will be 
too good to live in, and most of us will have to leave, if we hain't 
already. 

Why, I can remember when a gal that dared to look at a pair of 
skates was called a Tomboy ; and you might as well have served 
out a term in the States Prison as to have been called that ! It was 
an awful name ! It used to be a sin for a gal to do anything that a 
boy did, except milk the cows, and eat pudding and molasses. 

As soon as it got cold enough to friz up, I made up my mind to see 
what I could do at skating. I had an idea that it wouldn't take me 
no time at all to larn. All the gals was an awful spell a-larning ; but 
all in the world that made 'em so long was 'cause they had fellers 
a-showing of 'em how, and they kinder liked the fun. If there hadn't 
been a feller in the neighborhood, a'most any of 'em would larnt the 
whole trade in three days. 

I went over to the bridge, and sold five pounds of butter, and got 
me a pair of skates. Hain't it astonishing how butter has gone up ? 
Never seed the beat of it in all my life ! We don't pretend to eat a 
mite of butter to our house, though we've get three farrer cows and 
a new milk's heifer. Joshua grumbles like everything ; but I tell 
him 'taint no use — I'd as lives he'd spread his bread with fifty-cent 



312 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

scrips as with butter. And 'twon't make no difference a hundred 
years from now whether a man has lived on butter or hog's fat. Not 
a speck ! 

I sold the butter, and' took three dollars' worth of skates. Miss 
Pike, the milliner, said I ought to have a skating costume — it wasn't 
properous to skate in a long-tailed govvnd and crinoline. 

So one day I sot myself to work, and fixed one. I took a pair of 
Joshua's red flannel drawers, and sot two rosettes of green ribbon onto 
the bottoms of 'em ; and then I took a yaller petticoat of mine, and 
sewed five rows of blue braids round the bottom of that ; my waist 
I made out of a red and brown plaid shawl, and for a cap I took one 
of Joshua's cast-off stove-pipe hats, and cut it down a story. I tied a 
wide piece of red flannel around it, and pulled out an old crower's 
tail, and stuck that into the front of it. Joshua laffed at me, the 
master. He sed I looked jest like an Injun squaw; but as he never 
seed one, I dunno how he knowed. 

Sam Jellison sed he'd lam me how to do ; but I told him no ; I 
didn't want nobody a-handling me round a-finding out whether I wore 
corsets or not. I didn't like the style. I guessed I could take keer 
of myself. I'd allers managed to. I'd took keer of myself through 
the jonders, and the dispepsy, and the collery morbus, and I'd allers 
made my soap, and did my own cleaning, and I guessed I could 
skate without nobody's assistance. I didn't want no little upstarts a 
holding onto me with one arm, and laffing at me in t'other sleeve at 
the same time. 

Sam he whistled and sed nothing. It's a dreadful hateful way some 
folks have of insulting of ye — that whistle of theirn. 

One Tuesday morning, bright and airly, I got my work out of the 
way, and dressing myself in my skating costume, I took my skates in 
one hand and a long pole to steady myself by in the other, and set 
sail for the mill-pond. 

I shouldn't have dared to begin such an undertaking any day but 
Tuesday. Wednesday is allers a dreadful day for me! Why, I've 
broke more'n ten dollars' worth of crockery Wednesdays ; and I've 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 313 

sot three hens Wednesdays, and one's eggs all addled, and one she 
got broke up afore sh'd sot a week, and t'other one hatched out three 
chickens that was blind as bats, and never had no tail-feathers ! 

I went so airly, that I was in hopes there wouldn't be no speckle- 
petaters to see my fust attempt ; but, lawful heart ! the pond was 
lined with 'em ! I felt rather down in the mouth at the idea of trying 
my skill afore all them people, but I was too plucky to back out. 

I sot down on the ground, and strapped on my skates ; and grab- 
bing my pole firmly in both hands, I got onto the ice. The minnit I 
got on, I sot rite down flat, in spite of all I could do, and it was as 
much as five minutes afore I could git up agin. And when I did my 
left foot begun for to run rite round t'other one, and I run rite round 
arter it. The fust thing I knowed my heels was up, and my head 
was down, and I thought it was night and all the stars in the firmary 
was having a shooting-match. 

Sam Jellison he seed me fall, and come and picked me up. Sam is 
dreadful attentive to me, because he's trying to shine my darter Betsey. 
I can see through it all. He wanted to help me stiddy myself, but I 
wouldn't let him, and started off upon the dog trot. I could run a 
good deal better than I could slide. I thought I'd go over on t'other 
side of the pond, where Miss Pike and some other friends of mine 
was ; and, sticking my long pole into the airholes, I made out to get 
under way. And after I once got started, the difficulty was to stop 
myself. I went rite ahead like a steam injine down grade. I found 
it wasn't no use to fite against fate ; and, concluding that this was the 
fun of skating, I drawed up my pole and let it stick out each side of 
me, and sailed on. I had the wind in my back, and it filled my yaller 
petticoat so that it floated out afore me like the star spangled banner 
on the Fourth of July. 

I was a-coming to where the skaters were at it pretty thick ; but I 
I didn't think to take my pole in, and the fust thing I knowed I was a 
mowing of 'em down with it, rite and left, as a two-hoss mowing-ma- 
chine takes down the grass on a medder. 

The ice was lined with the ruins ! Muffs, and hoods, and gloves, 



314 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

and false teeth, and waterfalls, and rats, and mice, and curled hair, and 
men, and women, and little boys — all mixed up together. You 
couldn't tell t'other from which ! 

Old Jim Pratt he went down among the rest ; and, as he went, the 
toe of his skate ketched into that beautiful braid on my yaller petti- 
coat, and in less'n a minnit tore it clear off and wound it all among 
the understandings of all the scrabbling people. 

I was madder'n a hatter ! I riz my pole to let 'em have some ; but 
before I could strike, the strain on that illigant trimming upsot my 
equalibrius, and down I went, striking the back of my crannyrum so 
hard, that for a minnit I thought my skull bone was broke clean 
across ! It seemed as if I could hear the rough edges grate together. 

Just as I was a-rising to get up, along come a feller at a 2.40 rate, 
without any eyes into his head, I expect, for he didn't see me, but 
undertook to skate rite over me, and away he come, head fust, onto 
the ice, with a grunt that sounded like a pig's when he's just gwine to 
sleep after eating a whole pail of swill. 

I grabbed hold of his coat-tail to hist myself up by, and, law sake ! 
the cloth parted like a cobweb, and left him with a short jacket on, 
and letting me back onto the ice harder than afore ! 

Sam Jellison he arrived jest at this minnit, and I didn't say nothing 
agin his helping of me. I felt as if I was nigh about played out. He 
esquarted me to the shore, with all that blue braid a-trailing after me. 
And when I'd got breath, he went up home with me, and I heard him 
kiss Bets behind the pantry door. Wall, wall, young folks will be 
young folks, and 'tain't no use to try to hinder 'em. 

I was so sore for a week that I couldn't git my arms to my head 
without screeching, and I felt all over as if I'd been onjinted and 
jined onto another person's understandings. 

As soon as I got better, though, I let Sam help me larn, and I can 
skate the master now. You never seed the beat ! Its the grandest 
exercise ! and so healthy ! I've friz both of my feet, and my nose, 
and my face has mostly peeled, and I've got the rumatiz tremenjous ; 
but I've larned to skate, and what do I keer ! — Clara Augusta. 



T 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 315 

A BOY'S POEM ON WASHINGTON. 1 

[Written expressly for this volume.] 

HEY'RE making a fuss about George's birthday — 

Who cares for his birthday ? Not I ; 
Tisn't much of a day for us boys after all — 

I'd rather have Fourth of July. 



Of course, ev'rybody has got to be born, 
And a birthday will come now and then, 

I know folks who have it about every year, 
But that doesn't make them ereat men. 



b' 



George hacked at a cherry tree, so it is said, 
And then wouldn't make an excuse; 

Why should he ? His father had seen what he did, 
To lie would have been of no use. 

Our country once wanted a father, you know ; 

If George hadn't then been around 
Some other would soon have applied for the place, 

And a good situation have found. 

Besides, it's a shame to make George the father 
Of a country so great and so grand, 

When nothing whatever is said of a mother — 
Why, that's a mean slight to our land. 

Uncle Ben's got a picture of George in a boat, 

A-crossing the Delaware River. 
Well, how would he cross it except in a boat ? 

Wade through it, get wet and then shiver ? 

My history says that a winter he spent 
At a place that is called Valley Forge ; 



316 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

What of it ? Why people spend winters there now — 
Was that any credit to George? 

He got the gilt sword of Cornwallis, 'tis said, 

And that was the end of the bother ; 
And yet, all the time he'd a sword of his own, 

And why should he want any other ? 

A president then I believe he was made, 

But that wasn't much it would seem ; 
'Twould have been something like it if he'd only been 

At the head of a foot-ball team. 

Henry Davenport. 



HOW THREE WERE MADE ONE. 

[The figures refer to the corresponding numbers in Part I.] 

A CANNIBAL maid and her Hottentot Blade — 
They met 2 in a rocky defile ; 
A gay eagle plume 10 was his only costume, 
The lady was wrapt in a — smile ; 
Together they strolled, and his passion 3 he told 

In pleading 18 and tremulous tone, 
While softly they trod on the blossom-strewn sod, 
And spooned in the twilight alone. 

Then sweetly she sighed as she shyly replied, 

With tender and fairy-like mien ; 
She murmured the word, when a war whoop 22 was heard- 

A rival had burst 2 on the scene. 
A savage Zulu to the trysting place drew, 

Demanding 14 his Cannibal bride ; 
But the Hottentot said, with a toss of his head, 

"I'll have thy 2 degenerate hide! " 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 317 

The Hottentot flew at the savage Zulu, 

The Zulu he went for the Blade, 
And fiercely they vied 14 in their strength and their pride, 

And fought 2 for the Cannibal Maid. 
She perched on a stone, 9 with a shapely shinbone 

Clasped tight in her tapering arms, 
And watched the blood fly with a love-laden eye 

While the warriors fought for her charms. 

When fiercer they fought and the ringing blows caught 

With thrust and with parry and punch, 
She said, with a smile, " In a very short while 

I will have those 9 two fellows for lunch." 
The purple blood flows from the Hottentot's nose, 

The Zulu is struck by the Blade ; 
Then each of them sighed, 19 a gasping — he died, 

And looked on the Cannibal Maid. 

She made a nice stew of the savage Zulu, 

And scrambled the Hottentot's brains — 
'Twas a dainty menu when the cooking was through, 

And she dined on her lovers' remains. 
The savage Zulu and the Hottentot, too, 

Both sleep in a Cannibal 7 tomb ; 
The three were made one, and the story is done — 



The maiden strolled 9 off in the gloom. 



Edward H. Peale. 



THE GOAT AND THE SWING. 

A VICIOUS goat, one day, had found 
His way into forbidden ground, 
When, coming to the garden swing, 
He spied a most prodigious thing — 
A ram, a monster to his mind, 
With head before and head behind ! 



318 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

Its shape was odd, no hoofs were seen, 
But without legs it stood between 
Two upright, lofty posts of oak, 
With forehead ready for a stroke. 

Though but a harmless ornament 

Carved on the seat, it seemed intent 

On barring the intruder's way ; 

While he, advancing, seemed to say, 

" Who is this surly fellow here ? 

Two heads, no tail — it's mighty queer ! 

A most insulting countenance!" 

With stamp of foot and angry glance 

He curbed his threatening neck, and stood 

Before the passive thing of wood. 

" You winked as I was going by ! 
You didn't ? What ! tell me I lie ? 
Take that ! " and at the swing he sprung ; 
A sounding thump ! It backward swung, 
And, set in motion by the blow, 
Swayed menacingly to and fro. 

" Ha! you'll fight? A quarrelsome chap 
I knew you were ! You'll get a rap! 
I'll crack your skull ! " A headlong jump ; 
Another and a louder bump ! 

The swing, as if with kindling wrath, 

Came pushing back along the path. 

The goat, astonished, shook his head, 

Winked hard, turned round, grew mad and said, 

" Villain ! I'll teach you who I am ! " 

(Or seemed to say), " you rascal ram, 

To pick a fight with me, when I 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 319 

So quietly am passing by ! 

Your head or mine! " A thundering stroke: 

The cracking horns met crashing oak ! 

Then came a dull and muffled sound, 
And something rolled along the ground, 
Got up, looked sad ; appeared to say : 
" Your head's too hard! " and limped away 
Quite humbly, in a rumpled coat — 
A dirtier and a wiser goat ! 

John Townsend Trowbridge. 



THE McSWATS SWEAR OFF. 

[Without speaking the word " puff" imitate the puff of oue smoking.] 
OBELIA, my love, another long and delightful evening is 



before us." 



The young husband was arrayed in a dressing-gown of 
gorgeous, variegated and dazzling complexion. He sat in a luxurious 
armchair and rested his tired feet on the soft plush cushions of two 
other chairs. In his hand he held a magazine of large print which he 
was trying laboriously to read with the aid of an eye-glass he had 
purchased under the deep and solemn conviction that his position in 
society required him to use something of the kind. 

"Is there anything else I can do for your comfort, Billiger?" 
tenderly inquired the young wife. 

" I think not, Lobelia," he replied after considering a few moments; 
" though if you will kindly open that package of ' Lone Jack ' and 
put the smoking set within reach I shall be obliged." 

Mrs. McSwat did so, and with her own fair hands she filled his new 
meerschaum, whose bowl was already taking a brownish tinge that 
gave promise of richer and grander result in the happy future. 

"You don't know, Lobelia (puff), how gratefully I (puff) appre- 
ciate your (puff) kindness in interposing no objection to my indulgence 



320 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

in (puff, puff) this habit. Hard as would have been the sacrifice, 
Lobelia, I (puff) would have quit it cheerfully — that is to say (puff) — 
with comparative cheerfulness, if you had exacted it." 

" How could I have asked you to quit smoking, Billiger," replied 
the young wife, " when you have never made the least objection to 
my chewing gum?" 

Mr. McSwat laid the pipe down and looked at her in astonishment. 

" Do you chew gum, Lobelia?" he said. " I never suspected it." 

"I — I confess I do sometimes, Billiger." 

" Mrs. McSwat," said he, severely, " have you any idea of the con- 
sequences of inveterate gum chewing? Do you know the inconceiv- 
ably vile materials of which the stuff is made?" 

" It can't be an}- worse, Mr. Swatt, than the poisonous, filthy, 
reeking fumes of that dirty old pipe you are " 

" Lobelia McSwat, have a care! Don't provoke me too far, or " 

" Billiger McSwat, do you dare to threaten me ? Don't glare and 
squint at me through that eye-glass till you have learned how to use 
it sir. You are " 

" Lobelia," exclaimed the young husband, pale with conflicting 
emotions, " you have spoken sneeringly of this meerschaum. It cost 
$25. But let that pass. I can bear it. To think, though, that the 
woman I have vowed to love and cherish," and his voice faltered — 
" upon whom I have poured out the treasure of a heart's richest 
affection, is a g-gum chew-chewer ! O! O! Lo-be-lia!" 

"B-Billiger ! " sobbed Lobelia, "I'll qu-quit ch-chewing if you'll 
stop smoking !" 

" I'll do it, my love !" he exclaimed. 

His brow aflame with lofty and noble resolve, Billiger wrapped his 
smoking set, with pipe, tobacco and all, in a paper and threw the 
package to the remotest depths of a dark and gloomy attic on the 
topmost floor, while Lobelia gathered up all her wads of gum from 
their various hiding places, rolled them into a compact bundle and 
threw them into the attic likewise. 

"With these slight sacrifices, Lobelia," said Billiger, tenderly, "we 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 321 

propitiate the good angels of domestic bliss, and banish forever the 
demon of discord from our hearthstone ! " 

******* 

Forty-eight hours had passed — 48 short, happy hours. Night had 
come again. 

Billiger was in that attic. He had sneaked into it, and was fum- 
bling around noiselessly for something. In the dark his hand had 
come in contact with a shoe, and he grasped it. It had a foot in it. 

There was a faint scream. 

" Mrs. McSwat, is that you ?" 

" Mr. McSwat, it is." 

" What are you doing here, madam ? " 

"Sir, I am looking for my gum. What are you doing here?" 

" Madam, I am hunting for my pipe." 



THE TELLTALE. 

[With piping, merry tones tr3' to suggest the notes of the bobolink in passages 
where the bird is supposed to be speaking.] 







NCE on a golden afternoon, 

With radiant faces and hearts in tune, 
Two fond lovers in dreaming mood 



Threaded a rural solitude. 
Wholly happy, they only knew 
That the earth was bright and the sky was blue, 

That light and beauty and joy and song 

Charmed the way as they passed along ; 
The air was fragrant with woodland scents : 
The squirrel frisked on the roadside fence; 

And hovering near them : " Chee — chee — Chink ? " 

Queried the curious bobolink, 
Pausing and peering with sidelong head, 
As saucily questioning all they said ; 
21 



322 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

While the ox-eye danced on its slender stem, 
And all glad nature rejoiced with them. 

Over the odorous fields were strewn 
Wilting windrows of grass new-mown, 
And rosy billows of clover bloom 
Surged in the sunshine and breathed perfume. 
Swinging low on the slender limb, 
The sparrow warbled his wedding hymn, 
And, balancing on a blackberry brier, 
The bobolink sung with his heart on fire — 
" Chink? If you wish to kiss her, do! 
Do it, do it ! You coward, you ! 

Kiss her! Kiss — kiss her! Who will see? 
Only we three! we three! we three! " 
Under garlands of drooping vines 
Through dim vistas of sweet-breathed pines, 
Past wide meadow — fields, lately mowed, 
Wandered the indolent country road. 

The lovers followed it, listing still, 
And, loitering slowly, as lovers will, 
Entered a low-roofed bridge that lay 
Dusky and cool, in their pleasant way. 
Under its arch a smooth brown stream 
Silently glided, with glint and gleam, 
Shaded by graceful elms that spread 
Their verdurous canopy overhead, — 
The stream so narrow, the boughs so wide, 
They met and mingled across the tide. 
Alders loved it, and seemed to keep 
Patient watch as it lay asleep, 
Mirroring clearly the trees and sky 
And the fluttering form of the dragon-fly, 






HUMOROUS READINGS. 323 

Save where the swift-winged swallow played 

In and out in the sun and shade, 
And darting and circling in merry chase, 
Dipped, and dimpled its clear dark face. 

Fluttering lightly from brink to brink, 
Followed the garrulous bobolink, 

Rallying loudly, with mirthful din, 

The pair who lingered unseen within. 
And when from the friendly bridge at last, 
Into the road beyond they passed, 

Again beside them the tempter went, 

Keeping the thread of his argument : 
"Kiss her — kiss her, chink a-chee-chee! 
I'll not mention it, don't mind me; 

I'll be sentinel — -I can see 

All around from this tall birch tree ! " 
But ah! they noted, nor deemed it strange, 
In his rollicking chorus a trifling change : 

" Do it — do it ! " with might and main, 

Warbled the tell-tale, " do it again ! " 



THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY. 

[The exquisite humor of this selection should be made effective by a sprightly 
manner and a touch of comedy in expression.] 

THE Lady Jane was tall and slim 
The Lady Jane was fair 
And Sir Thomas, her lord, was stout of limb, 
And his cough was short, and his eyes were dim, 
And he wore green "specs " with a tortoise shell rim, 
And his hat was remarkably broad in the brim, 
And she was uncommonly fond of him — 
And they were a loving pair ! 



324 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

And wherever they went, or wherever they came, 
Every one hailed them with loudest acclaim; 

Far and wide, 

The people cried, 
All sorts of pleasure, and no sort of pain, 
To Sir Thomas the good, and the fair lady Jane ! 

Now Sir Thomas the good, be it well understood, 

Was a man of very contemplative mood — 

He would pore by the hour, o'er a weed or a flower, 

Or the slugs, that came crawling out after a shower; 

Black beetles, bumble-bees, blue-bottle flics, 

And moths, were of no small account in his eyes; 

An " industrious flea " he'd by no means despise, 

While an "old daddy long-legs," whose long legs and thighs 

Passed the common in shape, or in color, or size, 

He was wont to consider an absolute prize. 

Giving up, in short, both business and sport, he 

Abandoned himself, tout entier, to philosophy. 

Now as Lady Jane was tall and slim, 

And Lady Jane was fair, 
And a good many years the junior of him, 
There are some might be found entertaining a notion, 
That such an entire and exclusive devotion 
To that part of science, folks style etomology, 

Was a positive shame, 

And, to such a fair dame, 
Really demanded some sort of apology; 
Ever poking his nose into this, and to that — 
At a gnat, or a bat, or a cat, or a rat, 
At great ugly things, all legs and wings, 
With nasty long tails, armed with nasty long stings ; — 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 325 

And eternally thinking, and blinking, and winking 
At grubs — when he ought of her to he thinking. 

But no! ah no! 'twas by no means so 

With the fair Lady Jane, 

Tout au contraite, no lady so fair, 
Was e'er known to wear more contented an air ; 
And — let who would call — every day she was there 
Propounding receipts for some delicate fare, 
Some toothsome conserve, of quince, apple or pear, 
Or distilling strong waters — or potting a hare — 
Or counting her spoons and her crockery ware ; 
Enough to make less gifted visitors stare. 

Nay more ; don't suppose 

With such doings as those 
This account of her merits must come to a close; 
No! — examine her conduct more clasely, you'll find 
She by no means neglected improving her mind; 
For there all the while, with an air quite bewitching 
She sat herring-boning, tambouring, or stitching, 
Or having an eye to affairs of the kitchen. 

Close by her side, 

Sat her kinsman, MacBride — 
Captain Dugald MacBride, Royal Scots Fusiliers; — 
And I doubt if you'd find, in the whole of his clan, 
A more highly intelligent, worthy young man ; 

And there he'd be sitting, 

While she was a-knitting, 
Reading aloud, with a very grave look, 
Some very " wise saw," from some very good book — 

No matter who came, 

It was always the same, 
The Captain was reading aloud to the dame, 



326 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

Till, from having gone through half the books on the shelf, 
They were almost as wise as Sir Thomas himself. 

Well, it happened one day — 

I really can't say 
The particular month ; — but I think 'twas in May, 
'Twas, I know, in the spring time, when " Natur look, gay," 
As the poet observes — and on tree-top and spray, 
The dear little dickey birds carol away, 
That the whole of the house was thrown into affright, 
For no soul could conceive what was gone with the Knight. 

It seems he had taken 

A light breakfast — bacon, 
An egg, a little broiled haddock — at most 
A round and a half of some hot buttered toast, 
With a slice of cold sirloin from yesterday's roast. 

But no matter for that — 

He had called for his hat, 
With the brim that I've said was so broad and so flat, 
And his " specs " with the tortoise shell rim, and his cane. 
Thus armed he set out on a ramble — a-lack! 

He set out, poor dear soul! — but he never came back! 

" First dinner bell" rang 

Out its euphonous clang 
At five — folks kept early hours then — and the "last " 
Ding-donged, as it ever was wont, at half-past. 
Still the master was absent — the cook came and said, he 
Feared dinner would spoil, having been so long ready, 
That the puddings her ladyship thought such a treat 
He was morally sure, would be scare fit to eat ! 
Said the lady, " Dish up ! Let the meal be served straight, 
And let two or three slices be put on a plate, 



^ 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 327 

And kept hot for Sir Thomas." — Captain Dugald said grace, 
Then set himself down in Sir Thomas's place. 

Wearily, wearily, all that night, 

That live-long night, did the hours go by ; 
And the Lady Jane, 
In grief and pain, 
She sat herself down to cry! 
And Captain MacBride, 
Who sat by her side, 
Though I really can't say that he actually cried, 

At least had a tear in his eye ! 
As much as can well be expected, perhaps, 
From "very young fellows" for "very old chaps." 
And if he had said 
What he'd got in the head, 
'Twould have been " Poor old Buffer, he's certainly dead!" 

The morning dawned — and the next — and the next, 
And all in the mansion were still perplexed; 

No knocker fell, 

His approach to tell; 
Not so much as a runaway ring at the bell. 

Yet the sun shone bright upon tower and tree, 
And the meads smiled green as green may be, 
And the dear little dickey birds caroled with glee, 
And the lambs in the park skipped merry and free. — 
Without all was joy and harmony! 

And thus 'twill be — nor long the day — 
Ere we, like him, shall pass away! 
Yon sun that now our bosoms warms, 
Shall shine — but shine on other forms ; 



328 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

Yon grove, whose choir so sweetly cheers 
Us now, shall sound on other ears ; 
The joyous lambs, as now, shall play, 
But other eyes their sports survey ; 
The stream we loved shall roll as fair, 
The flowery sweets, the trim parterre, 
Shall scent, as now, the ambient air ; 
The tree whose bending branches bear 
The one loved name — shall yet be there — 
But where the hand that carved it ? Where ? 

These were hinted to me as the very ideas 
Which passed through the mind of the fair Lady Jane, 
As she walked on the esplanade to and again, 

With Captain MacBride, 

Of course at her side, 
Who could not look quite so forlorn — though he tried. 
An " idea," in fact, had got into his head, 
That if " poor dear Sir Thomas " should really be dead, 
It might be no bad "spec" to be there in his stead, 
And by simply contriving, in due time, to wed 

A lady who was young and fair, 

A lady slim and tall, 
To set himself down in comfort there, 

The lord of Tapton Hall. 

Thinks he, " We have sent 

Half over Kent, 
And nobody knows how much money's been spent, 
Yet no one's been found to say which way he went ! 
Here's a fortnight and more has gone by, and we've tried 
Every plan we could hit on — and had him well cried, 

' Missing ! ! Stolen or Strayed, 

Lost or Mislaid \ 



i h 




MILLIE MEYER. 
"nobody ASKED YOU TO." 





f 


• 





RICHARD MANSFIELD. 



AH, WHO IS THIS, JUST ENTERING THE ROOM, 

THIS FINE-PUSS GENTLEMAN THAT'S ALL PERFUME?" 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 329 

A Gentleman ; — middle-aged, sober and staid ; 
Stoops slightly ; — and when he left home was arrayed 
In a sad colored suit, somewhat dingy and frayed ; 
Had spectacles on with a tortoise-shell rim, 
And a hat rather low crowned, and broad in the brim. 

Whoe'er shall bear, 

Or send him with care, 
(Right side uppermost) home ; or shall give notice where 
The middle-aged Gentleman is ; or shall state 
Any fact, that may tend to throw light on his fate, 
To the man at the turnpike, called Tapping ton Gate, 
Shall receive a reward of Five Pounds for his trouble 
N. B. — If defunct, the Reward will be double ! ! ' 

" Had he been above ground, 

He must have been found. 
No ; doubtless he's shot — or he's hanged — or he's drowned ! 

Then his widow — ay ! ay ! 

But what will folks say? 
To address her at once, at so early a day ! 
Well — what then — who cares ! — let 'em say what they may.' 

When a man has decided, 

As Captain MacBride did, 
And one fully made up his mind on the matter, he 
Can't be too prompt in unmasking his battery. 
He began on the instant, and vowed that her eyes 
Far exceeded in brilliance the stars in the skies ; 
That her lips were like roses, her cheeks were like lilies ■ 
Her breath had the odor of daffadowndillies ! — 
With a thousand more compliments, equally true, 
Expressed in similitudes equally new ! 

Then his left arm he placed 

Around her jimp, taper waist — 
Ere she fixed to repulse or return his embrace, 



330 , HUMOROUS READINGS. 

Up came running a man at a deuce of a pace, 

With that very pecular expression of face 

Which always betokens dismay or disaster, 

Crying out — 'twas the gard'ner — " Oh, ma'am we've found 

master ! ! " 
"Where? where?" screamed the lady; and echo screamed, 
"Where?" 

The man couldn't say " there ! " 

He had no breath to spare, 
But gasping for breath he could only respond 
By pointing — he pointed, alas ! — to the pond. 
'Twas e'en so ; poor dear Knight, with his "specs" and his hat, 
He'd gone poking his nose into this and to that ; 
When close to the side of the bank, he espied 
An uncommon fine tadpole, remarkably fat ! 

He stooped ; — and he thought her 

His own ; — he had caught her ! 
Got hold of her tail — and to land almost brought her, 
When — he plumped head and heels into fifteen feet water ! 

The Lady Jane was tall and slim, 

The Lady Jane was fair, 
Alas ! for Sir Thomas ! — she grieved for him, 
As she saw two serving men sturdy of limb, 

His body between them bear : 
She sobbed and she sighed, she lamented and cried, 

For of sorrow brimful was her cup ; 
She swooned, and I think she'd have fallen down and died, 

If Captain MacBride 

Hadn't been by her side 
With the gardener ; — they both their assistance supplied, 

And managed to hold her up. 
But when she " comes to," 
Oh ! 'tis shocking to view 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 331 

The sight which the corpse reveals ! 

Sir Thomas' body, 

It looked so odd — he 
Was half eaten up by the eels ! 

His waitcoast and hose, 

And the rest of his clothes, 
Were all gnawed through and through ; 

And out of each shoe, 

An eel they drew ; 
And from each of his pockets they pulled out two, 
And the gardener himself had secreted a few, 

As well might be supposed he'd do, 
For, when he came running to give the alarm, 
He had six in the basket that hung on his arm. 

Good Father John was summoned anon ; 

Holy water was sprinkled and little bells tinkled, 

And tapers were lighted, 

And incense ignited, 
And masses were sung, and masses were said, 
All day, for the quiet repose of the dead, 
And all night no one thought about going to bed. 

But Lady Jane was tall and slim, 

And Lady Jane was fair, 
And ere morning came, that winsome dame 
Had made up her mind, or — what's much the same- 
Had thought about, once more " changing her name," 

And she said with a pensive air, 
To Thompson the valet, while taking away, 
When supper was over, the cloth and the tray, 
"Eels a many I've ate; but any 



332 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

So good ne'er tasted before ! — 
They're a fish, too, of which I'm remarkably fond — 
Go — pop Sir Thomas again in the pond — 

Poor dear ! — lie 11 catch its some wore." 

Moral. 

All middle-aged gentlemen, let me advise, 

If you're married, and haven't got very good eyes, 

Don't go poking about after blue-bottle flies. 

If you've spectacles, don't have a tortoise-shell rim 

And don't go near the water — unless you can swim. 

Married ladies, especially such as are fair, 
Tall and slim, I would next recommend to beware, 
How, on losing one spouse, they give way to despair ; 
But let them reflect, there are fish, and no doubt on't, 
As good in the river, as ever came out on't. 

Richard Harris Barham. 



JIMMY BROWN'S SISTER'S WEDDING. 

SUE ought to have been married a long while ago. That's what 
everybody says who knows her. She has been engaged to 
Mr. Travers for three years, and has had to refuse lots of offers 
to go to the circus with other young men. I have wanted her to get 
married, so that I could go and live with her and Mr. Travers. When 
I think that if it hadn't been for a mistake I made she would have 
been married yesterday, I find it dreadfully hard to be resigned. But 
we ought always to be resigned to everything when we can't help it. 

Before I go any further I must tell about my printing press. It 
belonged to Tom McGinnis, but he got tired of it and sold it to me 
real cheap. He was going to exchange it for a bicycle, a St. Bernard 
dog, and twelve good books, but he finally let me have it for a dollar 
and a half. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 333 

It prints beautifully, and I have printed cards for ever so many people, 
and made three dollars and seventy cents already. I thought it 
would be nice to be able to print circus bills in case Tom and I should 
ever have another circus, so I sent to the city and bought some type 
more than an inch high, and some beautiful yellow paper. 

Last week it was finally agreed that Sue and Mr. Travers should be 
married without waiting any longer. You should have seen what a 
state of mind she and mother were in. They did nothing but buy 
new clothes, and sew, and talk about the wedding all day long. Sue 
was determined to be married in church, and to have six bridemaids 
and six bridegrooms, and flowers and music and all sorts of things. 
The only thing that troubled her was making up her mind whom to 
invite. Mother wanted her to invite Mr. and Mrs. McFadden and 
the seven McFadden girls, but Sue said they had insulted her, and 
she couldn't bear the idea of asking the McFadden tribe. 

Everybody agreed that old Mr. Wilkinson, who once came to a 
party at our house with one boot and one slipper, couldn't be invited; 
but it was decided that every one else that was on good terms with 
our family should have an invitation. 

Sue counted up all the people she meant to invite, and there was 
nearly three hundred of them. You would hardly believe it, but she 
told me that I must carry around all the invitations and deliver them 
myself. Of course, I couldn't do this without neglecting my studies 
and losing time, which is always precious, so I thought of a plan 
which would save Sue the trouble of directing three hundred invita- 
tions and save me from wasting time in delivering them. 

I got to work with my printing-press, and printed a dozen splendid 
big bills about the wedding. When they were printed I cut a lot of 
small pictures of animals and ladies riding on horses out of some old 
circus bills and pasted them on the wedding bills. They were per- 
fectly gorgeous, and you could see them four or five rods off. When 
they were all done I made some paste in a tin pail, and went out after 
dark and pasted them in good places all over the village. 

The next afternoon father came into the house looking very stern, 




334 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

and carrying one of the wedding bills in his hand. He handed it to 
Sue and said : " Susan, what does this mean ? These bills are posted 
all over the village, and there are crowds of people reading them." 
Sue read the bill, and then she gave an awful shriek, and fainted 
away, and I hurried down to the post-office to see if the mail had 
come in. This is what was on the wedding bills, and I am sure it was 
spelled all right : 

Miss Susan Brown announces that she will marry 

Mr. James Travers 

at the Church next Thursday, at half-past seven, sharp. 

All the Friends of the Family 

With the exception of 

the McFadden tribe and old Mr. Wilkinson 

are invited. 

Come early and bring 

Lots of Flowers. 

Now what was there to find fault with in that ? It was printed beauti- 
fully, and every word was spelled right, with the exception of the 
name of the church, and I didn't put that in, because I wasn't quite 
sure how to spell it. The bill saved Sue all the trouble of sending 
out invitations, and it said everything that anybody would want to know 
about the wedding. Any other girl but Sue would have been pleased, 
and would have thanked me for all my trouble, but she was as angry 
as if I had done something real bad. Mr. Travers was almost as 
angry as Sue, and it was the first time he was ever angry with me. I 
am afraid now that he won't let me ever come and live with him. He 
hasn't said a word about my coming since the wedding bills were put 
up. As for the wedding, it has been put off, and Sue says she will go 
to New York to be married, for she would die if she were to have a 
wedding at home after that boy's dreadful conduct. What is worse, I 
am to be sent away to boarding-school, and all because I made a mis- 
take in printing the wedding bills without first asking Sue how she 
would like to have them printed. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 335 



YE OLDE TYME TAYLE OF Ye KNIGHTE, Ye YEOMANNE, 
AND Ye FAIRE DAMOSEL. 

[This is a fine example of the mock-heroic, and should be read in a rollicking, 
grandiloquent manner. Pronounce the words as written.] 

Canto I. 

ONCE on a time there was a knight, 
Was called Sir Dominoes 
Johannes Houven-Gouven-Schnouvers 
San Domingo Mose — 
A warrior he of noble blood 

As e'er found fun in fight. 
Oh, when he put his armor on 
He was a fearsome sight ! 
Bound round with straps, and strips, and strings, 

With thingumbobs and pegs, 
With stove-lids buckled on his breast, 

And stove-pipes on his legs, 
An iron pot upon his head, 
A brazen horn to toot, 
A sword stuck up his burly back, 
A razor down his boot. 

He owned great castles, lands, and men, 

And gallant ships, and steeds, 
And twice as many golden coins 

As anybody needs. 
Ye knight he loved a farmer's lass : 

Alas ! she loved not him ; 
But doted on a yeo-man bold, 

By name Sam-u-el Slimme, 
Who ploughed, and sowed, and reaped, and binned, 

Who staunchly tilled ye dirt, 



336 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

And wore a look of honesty, 

Likewise a flannel shirt. 
Strong was his arm ; warm was his heart ; 

Cold was his common-sense ; 
But, otherwise, poor Sam-u-el 

Had not a dozen pence. 

Yet Albacinda scoffed and scorned 

Ye high and haughty knight : 
She did not like his iron clothes, 

Nor care to see him fight. 
His castle was too old and dark ; 

She scorned his gold as well — 
Her father on Sir Mose did smile : 

She clung to Sam-u-el. 

Canto II. 

One morning in ye month of May, 

Amidst ye growing grain, 
Ye rival lovers met, eftsoon, 

A-coming down ye lane. 
"Give way, vile caitiff!" cried Sir Mose, 

"And let me journey on ; 
Or I will strew thy fragments up 

And down ye horizon ! " 

Then bold Sir Mose he drew his sword, 

Felt once its rusty edge, 
And slashed a slash at Sam-u-el 

That mowed ten yards of hedge. 
I' faith ! It was a vicious blow 

And whistled in ye air ! 
But when it reached brave Sam-u-el, 

Sam-u-el was not there. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 337 

So fierce and fearful was ye stroke 

Sir What's-his-name arose, 
Turned three successive summersaults, 

And landed on his nose. 
His stove-plates drove him in ye mud 

Six inches by ye fall : 
Ye knight, so weightily got up. 

Could not get up at all. 

Sam-u-el did not haste away, 

For he had cut a stick 
Four times as long as his right arm, 

And e'en a'most as thick ; 
Then, though ye knight was well dressed up, 

Ye farmer dressed him down, 
He made ye knight so black and blue 

He was quite done up brown. 
"Ye picked this bed," quoth Sam-u-el, 

" Methinks I'll let thee lie : 
Thy lying once will be grim truth. 

Sweet dreams, fair sir ! Good-by ! " 
Ye knight, so sorely taken in, 

Would fain be taken out ; 
" I stick at this ! " in wrath he cried, 

And loud for help did shout. 

And eke he sware a mighty vow, 

"Great fishing-hooks, y' bet, 
By my best Sunday garter-strings, 

I'll beat ye plough-man yet !" 
His hair it stood straight up for rage ; 

His lips were white with foam ; 
He sware to go that night and burn 

Sam-u-el's humble home. 
22 



338 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 



Canto III. 

Above ye deep and danksome dell 

Beneath ye gloomy wood, 
Ye wind it howled a dismal strain, 

Ye knight he howled for blood ; 
But as he stole along, a bull 

Espied ye lantern dim, 
And whilst he hunted Sam-u-el, 

Ye bull it hunted him ! 
When it flew in, ye light flew out ; 

Ye knight flew, with a cry ; 
His coat-tails they flew out behind ; 

His legs how they did fly ! 
Ye stove-pipes flew; ye stove-lids, too; 

His weapons went to pot; 
Sir Mose arose upon his toes : 

He just got up and got! 



With those great horns, three cloth-yards long, 

A whistling in ye wind, 
So on ye knight sped, like some cur 

With a tin can behind. 
For e'en a'most two miles he fled; 

Nigh tuckered out was he, 
When out of danger's way he clomb 

Into an apple-tree, 
Whereon he hung a-shivering 

And shrieking at ye beast, 
Till Sam-u-el came out to work, 

When day dawned in ye east. 



Forsooth, Sam-u-el's rage waxed hot; 
Then loud he 'gan to laugh : 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 339 

" To judge by thy companion, sir, 

Thou art a bawling calf — 
For men are known, I trow, sir, by 

Ye company they keep — 
Though only chickens roost in trees 

Whilst honest people sleep ! " 
Sir Mose yelled fiercely ; but, quite weak 

From hanging all ye night, 
He fell upon ye bull, which tossed 

Him clean up out of sight! 

Canto IV. 

Then up gat bold young Sam-u-el 

And galloped down ye lane, 
Unto his true-love's window-ledge, 

And tapped upon ye pane : 
" Come forth, sweet-heart; my love thou art ! 

Come forth and hie away ! 
Thou'lt married be, dear girl, to me, 

Before high noon this day. 
Sweet Albacinda, fly with me, 

And rule these vast concerns, 
Held safe in trust for bold Sir Mose ! 

(If ever he returns !) " 

Now gallop, gallop, gallant horse ! 

Now gallop with thy prize ! 
And hurl ye clay in chuncks away 

As big as apple-pies ! 
Fly down ye road, around ye hill, 

Up to ye castle door ; 
Across ye trembling drawbridge fly 

Up to ye banquet floor ! 




340 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

Quick, call ye gray-haired friar in 

From out his gloomy cell, 
To tie these two young true-loves tight ! 

Ring out, ye marriage bell! 
Ring " jingle-jangle jangle jing ! " 

Ring " fol-de-riddle-lay ! " 
Bold Sam-u-el has won his bride 

For ever and a day ! 
Go, bid ye foolish father 

To forget his angry pride, 
Accept his new-made son-in-law, 

And bless ye bonnie bride. 

Jack Bennett. 



THE SOFT GUITAR. 

Scene : Moonlight. Beneath the lady's window appeareth the lover with guitar. 

[Locate the lady's window to the right. When she replies let her speak toward 

the left.] 







PEN thy lattice, O lady bright! 

The earth lies calm in the fair moonlight ; 
Gaze on the glint of each glancing star, 
And list to the notes of my soft guitar. 



At the lady's window a vision shone — 
'Twas the lady's head with a night-cap on. 

See ! at the casement appearing now, 
With lily fingers she hides her brow. 
Oh, weep not — though bitter thy sorrows are, 
I will soothe them to rest with my soft guitar. 

Then the lady answered, " Who's going to weep? 
Go 'way with your fiddle, and let me sleep." 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 341 

Then sleep, dear lady ; thy fringed lids close, 
Pinions of cherubim fan thy repose, 
While through thy casement, slightly ajar, 
Steal the sweet notes of my soft guitar. 

Then the lady her " secret pain " confessed 
With the plaintive murmur, " Oh, give us a rest." 

Chide me not harshly, O lady fair ! 
Bend from thy lattice and hear my prayer. 
Sighing for thee, I wander afar, 
Mournfully touching my soft guitar. 

And the lady answered : " You stupid thing, 
If you've got the catarrh, stop trying to sing ! " 

Cruel, but fair one, thy scorn restrain ! 
Better death's quiet than thy disdain. 
I go to fall in some distant war, 
Bearing in battle my loved guitar. 

Answered the lady: "Well, hurry and go! 
I'm holding the slop-basin ready to throw." 

False one, I leave thee! When Fam at rest 
Still shall my memory haunt thy breast ; 
A spectral vision thy joy shall mar — 
A skeleton playing a soft guitar ! 

And the lady cried, in a scornful tone, 
" Old skeleton, go it — and play it alone /" 



Then the lover in agony roamed afar — 

S cr 

P. H. Bowne. 



Fell drunk in the gutter and smashed his guitar. 



342 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

A RECEIPT FOR A RACKET. 

T "THAT does it take to make a racket ? 
Wi Well, bless me, I certainly ought to know, 

For I have made them a score of times or so ! 
Here's the receipt — and I can't be wrong — 
For making them hot and sweet and strong ! 

What does it take to make a racket ? 

Two small boys in pants and jacket ; 

An empty room and a bare wood floor ; 

A couple of sticks to bang the door ; 

A chair or two to break and to swing ; 

A trumpet to blow and a bell to ring; 

A stamp and a tramp like a great big man ; 

And, when you can get it, an old tin pan ; 

A flight of stairs for a climb and a tumble ; 

A nursery maid to growl and grumble ; 

A chorus of howl and cry and shriek 

To drown your voice if you try to speak ; 

A dozen good blows on knees and back, 

Each one coming down with a terrible whack ; 

A couple of falls that would crack a nut, 

And one good bump on your occiput ; 

A rush and a scurry, a tear and a clatter, 

A mamma to cry " Now, what is the matter ? " 

And take these, and shake these, and put in a packet, 

And you'll have just the j oiliest kind of a racket! 

Of course, I am bound to confess 

You can manage to make it with less, 

(For this is a regular rich receipt, 

For pudding and sauce and all complete), 

And still have a very good show 
If you follow directions below : 






HUMOROUS READINGS. 843 

You can leave out the room and trie floor, 

The bumps and the bangs on the door ; 

The bell and the sticks and the stairs ; 

The trumpets, the howls and the chairs ; 

The whack and the fall and the rise; 

The shrieks and the groans and the cries; 

Mamma and the pan and the tramp, 

The nurse and the growl and the stamp, — 

But one thing you must have, however you get it ; 

Or else, if you don't, you will surely regret it — 

For remember my words — if you happen to lack it 

You never can have the least bit of a racket — 

And that is, two small boys in pants and in jacket! 



SHACOB'S LAMENT. 

OXCOOSE me if I shed some tears, 
Und wipe my nose away ; 
Und if a lump vos in my troat, 
It comes up dere to shtay. 

My sadness I shall now unfoldt, 

Und if dot tale of woe 
Don'd do some Dutchmans any good, 

Den I don't pelief I know. 

You see, I fall myself in love, 

Und effery night I goes 
Across to Brooklyn by dot pridge, 

All dressed in Sunday clothes. 

A vidder vomans vos der brize, 

Her husband he vos. dead ; 
Und all alone in this coldt vorldt 

Dot vidder vos, she said. 



344 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

Her heart for love vos on der pine, 

Und dot I like to see ; 
Und all der time I hoped dot heart 

Vos on der pine for me. 

I keeps a butcher shop, you know, 
Und in a stocking stout, 

I put avay my gold and bills, 
Und no one gets him oudt. 

If in der night some bank cashier 
Goes skipping off mit cash, 

I shleep so sound as nefer vos, 
Vhile rich folks go to shmash. 

I court dot vidder sixteen months. 

Dot vidder she courts me, 
Und vhen I says : " Vill you be mine?" 

She says : " You bet I'll be ! " 

Ve vos engaged — oh ! blessed fact ! 

I squeeze dot dimpled hand ; 
Her head upon my shoulder lays, 

Shust like a bag of sand. 

" Before der vedding day vos set," 
She vispers in mine ear, 

" I like to say I haf to use 

Some cash, my Jacob, dear. 

" I owns dis house and two big farms, 
Und ponds and railroad stock; 
Und up in Yonkers I bosses 
A grand big peesness block. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 345 

" Der times vos dull, my butcher boy, 
Der market vos no good, 
Und if I sell " — I squeezed her handt 
To show I understood. 

Next day — oxcoose my briny tears — 

Dot shtocking took a shrink ; 
I counted out twelve hundred in 

Der cleanest kind o' chink. 

Und later, by two days or more, 

Dot vidder shlopes avay ; 
Und leaves a note behindt for me 

In vhich dot vidder say : 

" Dear Shake : 

Der rose vos redt, 

Der violet blue — 
You see I've left, 

Und you're left, too ! " 

Charles F. Adams.. 



BE BRAVE. 

WHEN sudden cry shall rend the air, 
That hardest heart would move, 
Be ready then to rush to her, 
Your gallantry to prove, 
When her eyes dilate with horror, 

And her cheek doth pale with fear, 
And you think that some torpedo 

Has exploded very near, 
Do not send for some quack doctor, 
Nor for a vinaigrette, 



346 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

But seize some deadly weapon — 

The nearest you can get, 
And fiercely let it fly, 

Exclaiming, "There, thou monster! 
'Tis now thy fate to die!" 

When her tones so very grateful 
Will repay you for your care, 

As she murmurs, " You are very brave, 
I really must declare ! " 

And when her friends have gathered round, 
Join not in their reproach, 

As they in dire amazement find 

'Twas a terrible cock roach. 

May Cooper. 



HE TRIED TO TELL HIS WIFE. 

IF there is one thing more than another calculated to throw a man 
into a gnashing-of-the teeth and tearing-of-the hair condition, it is 
his attempt to give the wife of his bosom an account of some 
ordinary affair. He begins with : 

Oh, my dear, I must tell you something Jack Burroughs told me 

to-day while 

Where did you see Jack Burroughs ? answered the wife. 

Oh, we went to luncheon together, and 

How did you happen to go to luncheon together ? 

Well, we didn't exactly go out together. I met Jack at the 

restaurant, and 

What restaurant? 
Calloway's, and Jack 



How did you happen to go to Calloway's ? I thought you always 
lunched at Draper's? 

I nearly always do, but I just happened to drop into Calloway's 
to-day, along with Jack, and 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 347 

Does he always lunch at Calloway's ? 

I'm sure, my dear, that I don't know if he does or not. It makes 
no earthly difference if 

Oh, of course not. I just wondered if he did, that's all. Go on 
with your story. 

Well, while we were eating our soup, Jack 

What kind of soup? 

Oxtail. Jack said that 

I thought you disliked oxtail soup ? 

Well, I don't care much about it, but 

How did you happen to order it if you didn't care for it ? 

Because I did. But the soup has nothing to do with the story. 

Oh, of course not. I never said that it did. I don't see why you 
should get cross over a simple question. Go on. 

Well, while we were eating our soup, Lawrence Hildreth and his 
wife came in, and 

They did? 

I have just said so. 

Well, you needn't be so cross about it. 

They came in, and • '- 

Is she pretty ? 

Pretty enough. Jack bowed, and 

Does he know them ? 

Well, now, do you suppose he would have bowed if he hadn't 
known them? I declare if I — — 

How was she dressed ? 

How should I know? I never looked at her dress. What I was 
going to tell you was that 

Did they sit near you ? 

Yes, at the next table. And while they were ordering Jack said 
that they 

Couldn't they hear him ? 

Do you suppose that Jack would have no more sense than to let 
them hear him talking about them ? Look here, now 



348 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

James, if you can't tell a simple little incident without getting into 
a passion, you'd better keep it to yourself. What did Jack say ? 

He said that Mrs. Hildreth's father was opposed to the match, 
and 

How did he know that ? 

Great Caesar ! There you go again ! 

James, you will please remember that it is your wife to whom you 
are speaking, sir ! 

No other woman could drive me raving, distracted, crazy, asking 
silly questions about 

James ! 

Every time I try to tell you anything you begin, and you 

James I do not propose listening to any such insulting remarks, 
and 

You never listen to anything. That's the trouble. If- 

When I ask you a simple question you 

I'd say " simple ! " You've asked me a million simple questions in 
the last half hour, just because I was going to tell you that Jack Bur- 
roughs said that 

I do not wish to know what Mr. Jack Burroughs said, if you can- 
not tell it respectfully. I shall have my dinner sent to my room, since 
it is so painful for you to eat with an idiot ! 

And the much-injured wife retires scornfully, while her husband 
narrowly escapes an attack of apoplexy. 



A RUSSIAN COURTSHIP. 

. T~) E mine," said the ardent young SawmilegofT, 
l) In a voice with emotion quite husky, 

" My fondest devotion, oh, please do not scoff", 
Katina Pojakaroulski! " 

"Techernyschevsky, my friend," the shy maiden replied, 
"Your people are noble and rich. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 349 

Would a Golgusoff 's granddaughter be a fit bride 
For a nephew of Maximovitch?" 

" I care not a kopeck ! " he said. " In my droshky 
I have you safe now, and I laugh 
At the wealth of a Klitkin or Overhauloshki, 
Gojavnik, or Pullerzedoff. 

"You are worth more to me than the gold of Slugmiski, 
Brakemupski, or Sumarakoff! 
Katina Pojakaroulski, it's risky, 
But I'm going to carry you off! " 

And this is the way young Sawmilegoff 

Put an end to all further discussion, 
'Twas a simpler proceeding to carry her off 

Than to go on courting in Russian. 



PAT'S LOVE LETTER. 

IT'S Patrick Dolin, myself and no other, 
That's after informin' you without any bother, 
That your own darlin' self has put me heart in a blaze 
And made me your sweetheart the rest of me days. 
And now I sits down to write ye this letter, 
To tell how I loves ye, as none can love better. 
Mony's the day, sure, since first I got smitten 
Wid yer own purty face, that's bright as a kitten's, 
And yer illegant figger, that's just the right size ; 
Faith ! I'm 'all over in love wid ye, clear up till me eyes. 
You won't think me desavin', or tellin' a lie, 
If I tell who's in love wid me, just ready to die. 
There's Bridget McCregan, full of coketish tricks, 















350 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

Keeps flatterin' me pride, to get me heart in a fix ; 

And Bridget, you know, has great expectations 

From her father that's dead, and lots of relations. 

Then there's Biddy O'Farrel, the cunningest elf, 

Sings "Patrick, me darlin','' and that means meself. 

I might marry them both, if I felt so inclined, 

But there's no use talking of the likes of their kind. 

I trates them both alike, without impartiality, 

And maintains meself sure on the ground of neutrality. 

On me knees, Helen, darlint, I ask your consent 

"For better or worse," without asking a cent. 
I'd do anything in the world — anything you would say, 
If you'd be Mistress Dolin instead of Miss Day. 
I'd save all me money and buy me a house, 
Where nothing should tease us so much as mouse ; 
And you'll hear nothing else from year out to year in, 
But swate words of kindness from Patrick Dolin. 
Then — if ye should die — forgive me the thought, 
I'd always behave as a dacent man ought. 
I'd spend all me days in wailing and crying 
And wish for nothin' so much as jist to be dying. 
Then you'd see on marble slabs, reared up side by side, 

" Here lies Patrick Dolin, and Helen, his bride." 
Yer indulgence, in conclusion, on me letter I ask, 
For to write a love letter is no aisy task ; 
I've an impediment in me speech, as me letter shows, 
And a cold in me head makes me write through me nose. 
Please write me a letter, in me great-uncle's care, 
With the prescription upon it, "Patrick Dolin, Esquare." 

" In haste," write in big letters, on the outside of the cover, . 
And believe me forever, your distractionate lover. 
Written wid me own hand. 

his 

Patrick X Dolin. 

mark, 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 351 



MY NEIGHBOR'S CALL. 



I 



DON'T want to compel you 

To let your baking go, 
But I came in to tell you 

Some things you ought to know ! 



It won't take long; no doubt you 
Will think it can't be so, 

But folks all talk about you ! 
I've come to let you know. 

i 

Now there's your next door neighbor- 
Don 't say I told you, though ! 

She says its no great labor 
To find out all you know ! 

You see you're too confiding ; 

You don't know friend from foe. 
I'll set you right, providing 

You think you ought to know. 

You've heard of Mrs. Grundy? 

She thinks it looks quite low 
For you to drive out Sunday. 

I'm sure you ought to know : 

Your class don't like their teacher. 

I knew it long ago! 
They all prefer Miss Preacher — 

Thought you might like to know. 

You must change your dressmaker; 

You make a sorry show 
Primmed up like some old Quaker ! 

I s'pose you didn't know. 



352 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

But then I've heard it hinted 

You don't pay what you owe ; 
I suppose your means are stinted. 

Of course you ought to know. 

Though you may not concede it, 

Your baby doesn't grow ! 
They say you don't half feed it — 

But then you ought to know. 

I saw your husband last night 

With Mrs. So and So ; 
Of course it may be all right, 

But I should want to know. 

I think this bread will sour, 

You don't half mix your dough ; 
I mould mine just an hour — 

It's strange you shouldn't know ! 

You need me to propel you ! 

This clock's a little slow — 
I'll drop in soon and tell you 

More things you ought to know! 

Georgia A. Peck. 

A WOMAN'S WATCH. 

OH, I am a woman's watch, am I, 
But I would that I were not ; 
For if you knew, you would not deny 
That mine is a sorry lot. 
She'll let me rest for a great long while, 

Then all of a sudden seek 
To twist me up so tight that I'll 
Keep going for a week. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 353 

She leaves me open when she will, 

Till I'm sick of dirt and things; 
Of pins and hair I have got my fill, 

And of buttons, hooks and strings. 
There's a four-leaf clover in me, too, 

And a piece of a photograph ; 
I'm stuffed completely through and through 

With toothpicks, cloves and chaff. 

My hands are twisted to and fro, 

I'm thumped and jarred, alack ! 
And then, if I fail to straightway go, 

I'm pounded front and back. 
With her hat-pin all my wheels she'll pry, 

Till she breaks them, every one, 
And then she'll say : " I don't see why 

This mean old thing won't run ! " 



AN INCOMPLETE REVELATION. 

[The figures refer to the corresponding numbers in Part I.] 

T "THILE Quaker folks were Quakers still, some fifty years ago, 
j/SL When coats were drab and gowns were plain and speech was 

staid and slow, 
Before Dame Fashion dared suggest a single friz or curl, 
There dwelt, mid Penfield's 2 peaceful shades, an old-time Quaker girl. 

Ruth Wilson's garb was of her sect. Devoid 4 of furbelows, 
She spoke rebuke 15 to vanity from bonnet to her toes ; 
Sweet redbird was she, all disguised in feathers of the dove, 
With dainty foot and perfect form and eyes that dreamt of love. 

Sylvanus Moore, a bachelor of forty years or so, 
A quaintly pious, weazened soul, with beard and hair of tow 
23 



354 HUMOROUS READINGS. . 

And queer thin legs and shuffling walk and drawling, nasal tone, 
Was prompted by the Spirit to make 2 this maid his own. 

He knew it was the Spirit, for he felt it in his breast 
As oft before in meeting-time, and, sure of his request, 
Procured the permit in due form. On Fourth-day of that week 
He let Ruth know the message true that he was moved to speak. 

" Ruth, it has been revealed 3 to me that thee and I shall wed, 
I have spoken to the meeting and the members all have said 
That our union seems a righteous one 1 , which they will not gainsay, 
So if convenient to thy view, I'll wed thee 7 next Third-day." 

The cool possession of herself by Friend Sylvanus Moore 
Aroused her hot 11 resentment, which by effort she forbore — 
She knew he was a goodly man, of simple, childlike mind — 
And checked the word " Impertinence ! " and answered him in kind : 

"Sylvanus Moore, do thee go home 15 and wait until I see 
The fact that I must be thy wife revealed unto me." 
And thus she left him there alone, at will to 12 ruminate — 
Sore puzzled 17 at the mysteries of love, free-will, and fate. 

Richard A. Jackson. 



WHEN SAM'WEL LED THE SINGIN'. 

OF course I love the house o' God, 
But I don't feel to hum there 
The way I uster do, afore 

New-fangled ways had come there. 
Though things are finer now a heap, 

My heart it keeps a-clingin' 
To our big, bare old meetin'-house, 
Where Sam'wel led the singin'. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 355 

I 'low it's sorter solemn-like 

To hear the organ pealin'; 
It kinder makes yer blood run cold, 

An' fills ye full o' feeling. 
But, somehow, it don't tech the spot — 

Now, mind ye, I ain't slingin' 
No slurs — ez that bass viol did 

When Sam'wel led the singin'. 

I tell ye what, when he struck up 

The tune, an' sister Hanner 
Put in her purty treble — eh ? 

That what you'd call sopranner — 
Why, all the choir, with might an' main, 

Set to, an' seemed a-flingin' 
Their hull souls out with ev'ry note, 

When Sam'wel led the singin'. 

An', land alive, the way they'd race 

Through grand old " Coronation!" 
Each voice a chasin' t'other round, 

It jes' beat all creation! 
I alius thought it must 'a' set 

The bells o' heaven a ringin' 
To hear us " Crown Him Lord of All," 

When Sam'wel led the singin'. 

Folks didn't sing for money then ! 

They sung because 'twas in 'em 
An' must come out. I useter feel — 

If Parson couldn't win 'em 
With preachin' an' with prayin' an' 

His everlastin' dingin' — 
That choir'd fetch sinners to the fold, 

When Sam'wel led the sinean'. 



356 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

OBSERVATIONS BY REV. GABE TUCKER. 

YOU may notch it on de palin's as a mighty resky plan 
To make your judgment by the clo'es dat kiyers up a 
man; 
For I hardly needs to tell you how you often come ercross 
A fifty-dollar saddle on a twenty-dollar hoss. 
An', walkin' in de low groun's, you diskiver, as you go, 
Dat the fines' shuck may hide de meanes' nubbin in a row ! 
I think a man has got a mighty slender chance for heben 
Dat holds on to his piety but one day out o' seben ; 
Dat talks about de sinners wid a heap o' solemn chat, 
An' nebber draps a nickel in de missionary hat ; 
Dat's foremost in the meetin' house for raisin all de chunes, 
But lays aside his 'ligion wid his Sunday pantaloons ! 

J. A. Macon. 



MR. EIS5ELD0RF AND THE WATER PIPE. 

H 



j'ANS, dot vater pipe giffs no vater alretty, und you vos petter 
sent oop dot blumber to vix id vonce more." 
This remark was addressed to a highly respected German 
citizen as he sat in front of his cosy grate. He received the announce- 
ment with evident disfavor. . 

" Vot ! Dot vater pipe again! I vas shoost congratulatin' meinseli 
dot de ice vagon comes no more, und dot new hat vos paid for, und 
dot Christmas vas a long vays ahead — und now von off dose blum- 
bers ! Mein gracious, Gretchen ! I got no money for blumbers. 
I vixes id myself." " Joe ! " addressing his ten-year-old son, " vere vas 
dot leak ? " 

Then Joe proceeded to explain that the leak was under the house, 
where the stout frame of his worthy ancestor could hardly go. 

"Neffer mind, neffer mind. You gets me some bipe und a monkey 
wrench, und I save dot blumber 's bill. 

So the next day Joe got the pipe and the monkey wrench, and his 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 357 

father, having divested himself of ail surplus garments, entered the hole, 
pulling the pipe after him. It was a tight squeeze, and after laying on 
his back to convenience his position, he proceeded to discover the leak. 
Very little water was now coming from it, as he had taken the precaution 
to turn off the tap. He hadn't turned it quite tight enough and yelled : 
"Turn off de vater." 

"Ail righdt, fader," replied Joe. 

Joe didn't know his right hand from his left, nor the philosophy of 
screws, and turned it on. 

The old gentleman's mouth was under the leak. He was wedged 
in. He sputtered and swore and swore and sputtered, but his wild 
yells to Joe were muffled by the sound of deluging water and Joe was 
intent on a dog-fight across the way, as he sat on an empty nail keg 
and chewed gum. 

He looked over his shoulder and saw the old man with a shining 
red face, mud-bespattered, angrily creeping from the hole. His clothes 
clung limply to him and trickling streams meandered down his neck. 

Joe apprehended danger and dashed away at a pace that left his 
corpulent father far in the rear. As the boy sped out of sight Mr. 
Eisseldorf gathered himself with a supreme effort and hurled the 
monkey-wrench at the fleeing form, crying^: 

" Mine cracious, do you dink I vas a duck ? " 



THE WATERMILLION. 

THERE was a watermillion 
Growing on a vine, 
And there were a pickanniny 
A-watching it all the time. 

And when that watermillion 
Were a-ripening in the sun, 

And the stripes along its jacket 
Were coming one by one, 



358 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

That pickaninny hooked it, 
And toting it away, 

He ate that entire million 
Within one single day. 

He ate the rind and pieces, 
He finished it with vim — 

And then that watermillion 
Just up and finished him. 



AN ALL=ROUND INTELLECTUAL MAN. 




H 



E was up in mathematics, 
Had a taste for hydrostatics, 
And could talk about astronomy from Aristarchus down ; 
He could tell what kind of beans 
Were devoured by the Chaldeans, 
And he knew the date of every joke made by a circus clown. 

He was versed in evolution, 

And would instance the poor Russian 
As a type of despotism in the modern age of man. 

He could write a page of matter 

On the different kinds of batter 
Used in making flinty gimcracks on the modern cooking plan. 

He could revel in statistics, 



He was well up in the fistics, 
Knew the pedigree of horses dating 'way back from the ark. 

Far and wide his tips were quoted, 

And his base-ball stuff was noted. 
In political predictions he would always hit the mark. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 359 

He could write upon the tariff, 

And he didn't seem to care if 
He was called off to review a book or write a poem or two : 

He could boil down stuff and edit, 

Knew the value of a credit, 
And could hustle with the telegraph in a style excelled by few. 

He could tell just how a fire 

Should be handled ; as a liar 
He was sure to exercise a wise, discriminative taste. 

He was mild and yet undaunted, 

And no matter what was wanted 
He was always sure to get it first, yet never was in haste. 

But despite his reputation 

As a brainy aggregation, 
He was known to be deficient in a manner to provoke, 

For no matter when you met him 

He would borrow if you let him, 
And he seemed to have the faculty of always being broke. 

Tom Masson. 



WAKIN' THE YOUNG UNS. 

Scene. — The old man from the foot of the stairs, 5 A. M. 



B 



EE-ULL ! Bee-ull ! O Bee-ull ! my gracious, 
Air you still sleepin' ? 
Th' hour hand's creepin' 
Nearder five. 
(Wal' blast it ef this ain't vexatious ! ) 
Don't ye hyar them cattle callin' ? 
An' th' ole red steer a-bawlin'? 
Come, look alive ! 
Git up ! Git up ! 



' 



360 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

Mar 'ami ! Mar'ann ! (Jist hyar her snorin' !) 
Mar'ann ! it's behoovin' 
Thet you be a-movin' ! 
Brisk, I say ! 
Hyar the kitchen stove a-roarin' ? 
The kittle's a-spilin' 
To git hisse'f bilin'. 

It's comin' day. 
Git up ! Git up ! 

Jule, O Jule ! Now whut is ailin' ? 
You want ter rest ? 
Wal' I'll be blest! 

S'pose them cows 
'LI give down 'ithout you pailin'? 
You mus' be goin' crazy; 
Er, more like, gittin lazy. 
Come, now, rouse ! 
Git up ! Git up ! 

Jake, you lazy varmint ! Jake ! Hey, Jake ! 
What you layin' theer fer? 
You know the stock's ter keer fer ; 
So, hop out ! 
(Thet boy is wusser'n a rock ter wake !) 
Don't stop to shiver, 
But jist unkiver, 

An' pop out ! 

Git up ! Git up ! 

Young uns ! Bee-ull ! Jake ! Mar'ann ! Jule ! 
(Wal blast my orn'ry skin ! 
They've gone ter sleep agin, 
Fer all my tellin' !) 




SOL SMITH RUSSELL and MINNIE RADCLIFFE. 



WILL YOU— ER— ACCEPT THIS SLIGHT TOKEN—?' 
"l MIGHT FROM SOME MEN." 




FLORA HENDERSON. 

"ho, fluttering beauty, come nearer, come!" 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 361 

See hyar, I hain't no time ter fool ! 
It's the las' warnin' 
I'll give this mornin'. 
I'm done yellin' ! 
Git up ! Git up ! 

Wal' whut's th' odds — an hour, more or less ? 
B'lieve it makes 'em stronger 
Ter sleep a leetle longer 
Thar in bed. 
The times is comin' fas' enough, I guess, 
When I'll wish, an' wish 'ith weepin', 
They was back up yender sleepin', 
Overhead, 
Ter git up. 

John Boss. 

NAMING THE CHICKENS. 

THERE were two little chickens hatched out by one hen, 
And the owner of both was our little boy Ben ; 
So he set him to work as soon as they came, 
To make them a house and find them a name. 

As for building a house, Benny knew very well 
That he couldn't do that ; but his big brother Phil 
Must be handy at tools, for he'd been to college, 
Where boys are supposed to learn all sorts of knowledge. 

Phil was very good-natured, and soon his small brother 
Had a nice cozy home for his chicks and their mother ; 
And a happier boy in the country just then 
Could not have been found than our dear little Ben. 

But a name for his pets it was harder to find ; 
At least, such as suited exactly his mind ; 


















362 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

No mother of twins was ever more haunted 
With trouble to find just the ones that she wanted. 

There were plenty of names, no doubt about that ; 
But a name that would do for a dog or a cat 
Would not answer for chickens so pretty as these ; 
Or else our dear boy was not easy to please. 

These two tiny chickens looked just like each other; 
To name them so young would be only a bother ; 
But with one in each hand, said queer little Ben : 
" I want this one a rooster and that one a hen" 

Benny knew them apart by a little brown spot 

On the head of the one that the other had not. 

They grew up like magic, each fat, feathered chick, 

One at length was named Peggy and the other named Dick. 

But a funny thing happened concerning their names ; 
Rushing into the house one day, Benny exclaims : 
"O mother ! O Phil ! such a blunder there's been, 
For Peggy s the rooster and Dick is the hen!''' 

Mrs. L. B. Bacon. 



NEEDLES AND PINS. 

T "THEN will you marry me, my bonnie maid?" 
\SL " Can we not wait ? " said she — 

"You know that I love you, but dear, I'm afraid 
You soon will get weary of me." 
Then he vowed and swore to love and adore, 

He prayed on his bended knee, 
He said with a sigh " If I wait I shall die ! " — 

He was a man, you see. 
Sugar and cream, sugar and cream, ) 

When we are married 'twill be a sweet dream! ) ^ 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 363 

But the sugar and cream they passed like a dream, 

Alas ! they could never agree. 

She said, "Let us part, you've broken my heart! " 

"I think it is best," said he — 

"When I'm gone you will miss me a thousand times o'er ! " 

" Oh no ! not a whit ! " said he — 

Then away she went stamping and slamming the door — 

She was a woman, you see. 

Needles and pins ! Needles and pins ! ) 

. . > Repeat 

When a man's married, his trouble begins ! j 

Five minutes, precisely five minutes had passed, 
She opened the door with a sigh, 
"Since we have settled to part," she said — - 

" I wanted to say good-by ! " 
"We never shall meet any more," she wept — 
"Alone we must live and die." 
Then he opened his arms and in them she crept, 

And that's how they said good-by. 
Let the bells ring ! Let the bells ring ! | 

Man without woman is but a poor thing ! ) 



TOO PROGRESSIVE FOR HIM. 

I AM somethin' of a vet'ran, just a-turnin' eighty year, — 
A man that's hale and hearty an' a stranger tew all fear; 
But I've heard some news this mornin' that has made my old 
head spin, 
An' I'm goin' tew ease my conshuns if I never speak ag'in. 

I've lived my fourscore years of life, an' never till tew-day 

Wuz I taken for a jackass or an ign'rant kind o' jay, 

Tew be stuffed with such durned nonsense 'about them crawling bugs 

and worms 
That's killin' human bein's with their " mikroscopic germs." 



364 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

They say there's " mikrobes " all about a-lookin' for their prey; 
There's nothin' pure to eat nor drink, an' no safe place to stay ; 
There's " miasmy " in the dewfall an' " malary " in the sun ; 
'Tain't safe to be outdoors at noon or when the day is done. 

There's "bactery" in the water an' "trikeeny" in the meat, 
" Ameeby " in the atmosphere, " calory " in the heat ; 
There's " corpussels" an' " pigments " in a human bein's blood, 
An' every other kind o' thing existin' sence the flood. 

Terbacker's full o' " nickerteen," whatever that may be; 

An' your mouth'll all get puckered with the " tannin " in the tea ; 

The butter's " olymargareen " — it never saw a cow ; 

An' things is gittin' wus an' wus from what they be just now. 

Them bugs is all about us, just a-waitin' fer a chance 

Tew navigate our vitals an' tew naw us off like plants. 

There's men that spends a lifetime huntin' worms just like a goose, 

An' tackin' Latin names to 'em an' lettin' on 'em loose. 

Now, I don't believe sech nonsense, an' I'm not a goin' tew try. 
If things has come tew such a pass, I'm satisfied tew die; 
I'll go hang me in the sullar, fer I won't be such a fool 
As to wait until I'm pizened by a " annymallycool." 

Lurana W. Sheldon. 



THE LOW=BACK CAR. 

T" "THEN first I saw Peggy, 
\SL 'Twas on a market day : 

A low-backed car she drove, and sat 

Upon a truss of hay ; 
But when that hay was blooming grass, 

And decked with flowers of spring, 
No flower was there that could compare 
With the blooming girl I sing. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 365 

As she sat in the low-backed car, 
The man at the turnpike bar 

Never asked for the toll, 

But just rubbed his owld poll, 
And looked after the low-backed car. 



In battle's wild commotion, 

The proud and mighty Mars 
With hostile scythes demands his tithes 

Of death in warlike cars ; 
While Peggy, peaceful goddess, 

Has darts in her bright eye, 
That knock men down in the market town 

As right and left they fly ; 
While she sits in her low-backed car, 
Than battle more dangerous far — 
For the doctor's art 
Cannot cure the heart 
That is hit from that low-backed car. 

Sweet Peggy round her car, sir, 

Has strings of ducks and geese, 
But the scores of hearts she slaughters 

By far outnumber these ; 
While she among her poultry sits, 

Just like a turtle dove, 
Well worth the cage, I do engage, 

Of the blooming god of love ! 
While she sits in her low-backed car, 
The lovers come near and far, 
And envy the chicken 
That Peggy is pickin' 
As she sits in her low-backed car. 



"66 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 



O, I'd rather own that car, sir, 

With Peggy by my side, 
Than a coach and four, and gold galore, 

And a lady for my bride ; 
For the lady would sit forninst me, 

On a cushion made with taste — 
While Peggy would sit beside me, 

With my arm around her waist, 
While we drove in the low-backed car, 
To be married by Father Mahar ; 
O, my heart would beat high 



At her glance and her sigh — 
Though it beat in a low-backed car ! 



Samuel Lover. 



THE OLD FISHERMAN. 

HE was old and weather-beaten, and his clothes were the same, 
but there was an expression of supreme content upon his tanned 
face as he sat on the edge of the wharf yesterday afternoon and 

let his legs dangle down. In his mouth was a pipe that had been new 

and sweet in the dear, dead long ago, and in his right hand he held 

one end of a fish-line. The other end was held down upon the bottom 

of the river, a long distance from the shore. 

"Any luck, captain ? " asked a young man who was strolling by. 

It is considered the proper thing to call every man along the river who 

is old.and weather beaten "captain." 

" Nope— they an't a-bitin' much to-day." 

" They don't bite much anyway these days, do they ? " 

"Nope — not like they useter. -'Tuseter be so't I could come aown 

here an' catch a basketful in mebbe an hour or so." 
"That was quite long ago, wasn't it?" 
" Yep, quite a spell ago. I 'member one time — hello ! " 
The old man had given his line a vicious jerk and was now all 

excitement. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 367 

" Got a bite, captain ? " 

"Yep, an' he's a whopper, too. I ain't quite sure whether I've 
hooked him. Yep, there he is. I feel him a-wigglin' on the line. 
He's a great, big, striped bass." 

All this was said in a sort of stage whisper. 

" How do you know what kind of a fish it is ? " 

" How do I know ? " repeated the old man, as he began slowly and 
deliberately to haul in his line, and he threw supreme pity for the 
ignorance implied by the question into his voice. " How do I know? 
Why, young man, I can tell jes' what kind of a fish 'tis by the way he 
bites. Now, there's an eel; he kind o' makes little bits o' pecks atyer 
line, an' then he takes holt an' swims away with yer line sort o' easy 
like. Then there's the sucker ; he jes' sucks yer bait, an' ye can't 
hardly feel him pull. An' then there's the yellow perch ; he takes holt 
right away and swims away like a streak." 

"And how does the striped bass bite?" interrupted the young man. 

" Oh, he monkeys around a whole lot, and then he takes hold all of 
a sudden and swims away down stream. I knowed right away when 
this fellow took holt he was a striped bass. I never make no mistake. 
I " 

Just then the old man's catch came to the surface. It was an old 
boot. 



KITTENS AND BABIES. 

THERE were two kittens, a black and a gray, 
And grandmamma said, with a frown, 
" It never will do to keep them both, 
The black one we'd better drown." 

" Don't cry, my dear," to tiny Bess, 
" One kitten's enough to keep ; 
Now run to nurse, for 'tis growing late, 
And time you were fast asleep." 



368 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

The morrow dawned, and rosy and sweet 
Came little Bess from her nap. 

The nurse said, " Go into mamma's room 
And look in grandma's lap." 

" Come here," said grandma, with a smile, 
v From the rocking-chair where she sat. 
" God has sent you two little sisters ; 
Now ! What do you think of that ? " 

Bess looked at the babies a moment, 

With their wee heads, yellow and brown, 
And then to grandma, soberly said, 
" Which one are you going to drown ? " 



A SIMILAR CASE. 

T "TELL, Jack! Hear you've gone and done it- 
jJSi Yes, I know most fellows will. 

Went and tried it once myself, sir, 
Though, you see, I'm single still. 
And you met her, did you — tell me — 

Down at Newport, last July, 
And resolved to ask the question 
At a soiree ! So did I. 

I suppose you left the ball room 

With its music and its light — 
For they say love's flame is brightest 

In the darkness of the night. 
Well, you walked along together, 

Overhead the starlit sky, 
And I'll bet, old man, confess it! 

You were frightened. So was I. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 369 

Then you strolled along the terrace, 

Saw the summer moonlight pour 
All its radiance on the waters 

As they rippled on the shore. 
Till at length you gathered courage, 

When you saw that none were nigh, 
And you drew her close and told her 

That you loved her. So did I. 

Well, I needn't ask you further, 

And I'm sure I wish you joy. 
Think I'll wander down to see you 

When you're married. Eh ! my boy? 
When the honeymoon is over, 

And you're settled down, we'll try — 
What ! The deuce you say — rejected ? 

You rejected? So was I ! 



A FLY'S COGITATIONS. 

I WONDER what this man is doing? I'll just light on his bald 
head and see what is going on in his thinkery. What ! Now, 
I wonder what he slapped his pate so savagely for ? Why, the 
man must be crazy. I went away just as quick as I saw him raise 
his hand. Really, he could not complain of that. Maybe he thought 
I was intruding ; but, if so, he cannot say but that I lit out at his first 
hint. But he seems quiet enough now. Maybe his scalp itched or 
something, and his move had no reference to my being on it, so I 
guess I will try it again. What a nice old bald head this is, to be 
sure, only it's a trifle slippery. It would make a first-rate skating- 
rink; guess I will try it. Whew! Why, the man hit his head again. 
Funny way he has with him ; and, if I hadn't got out of the way 
just as I did, goodness only knows what might have happened to me. 
He struck real hard, and if he had hit me, there is no knowing, but 
that he might have hurt me. But, maybe he hadn't any idea of hit- 
24 



370 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

ting me. I guess I'll just light on his nose and see what the matter is 
with him. What ! Why he seems to be an awfully sensitive sort of 
a man, or else he has got a dreadful temper. Why, he actually hit 
his own nose a slap just because I crawled around on it a bit. Queer 
sort of a chap, anyway. Wonder if he thinks a fly has no rights in 
this world. 

Now, I will try him in the ear. Ah ! I have got him now ! Good 
gracious ! he came within an ace of hitting me that time. Wonder 

s fa 

what he means, anyhow ? I should think he was mad about some- 

thing. I'll try his other ear and see how he likes that. Ah ! he 

don't seem to mind this one so much. Ah ! by Jingoes, he must 

have hurt himself that time with that bat on the ear. But it's his ear, 

not mine, so what should I care ? 

I think I'll fly around the room ! See him flop and fling his arms 
around as though the air was full of flying demons. Funny, isn't it? 
He don't see me up here, but he is looking wildly around as though 
he wanted to fight somebody. Oh ! I'll just try his temper a bit 
further ; I'll get on where his hair is short behind. Ah ! I'll fool 
around here in this stubble awhile. Now he flops his handkerchief, 
but I don't care for that. I can get away from a demonstration of 
that kind every time. 

Now I have got him on the ear again, and once more he paws the 
air in the immediate vicinity, but I am out of harm's way, ha ! ha ! 
Now he is red in the face ; yes, he looks like a boiled lobster, and 
again he is dancing around the room and swearing like a trooper ! 
Now he has quieted down a trifle and has resumed writing again ! 
Ah ! he smiles ! Must be he has got on to an idea. I wonder what 
it is ? I'll just take a quiet walk over that thinkery again, and maybe 
I can catch on to what it is. What in the world is he making his 
scalp go this way for ? I would think he was trying to shake some- 
thing off. Oh! I'll just get a grip on here and hold on for awhile. 
No, he can't shake me off; no, no ! Ah ! 

There was a resounding whack — that lively fly, oh where was he ? 
Dead! 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 371 

THE CHARGE ON « OLD HUNDRED." 

ALF a bar, half a bar, 
Half a bar onward ! 
Into an awful ditch, 
Choir and precentor hitch, 
Into a mess of pitch 
They led the Old Hundred. 

Trebles to right of them, 
Tenors to left of them, 
Basses in front of them, 

Bellowed and thundered. 
Oh ! that precentor's look, 
When the sopranos took 
Their own time and hook, 

From the Old Hundred. 

Screeched all the trebles here, 
Boggled the tenors there, 
Raising the parson's hair, 

While his mind wandered ; 
Theirs not to reason why 
This psalm was pitched too high ; 
Theirs but to gasp and cry 

Out the Old Hundred. 

Trebles to right of them, 
Tenors to left of them, 
Basses in front of them, 

Bellowed and thundered. 
Stormed they with shout and yell, 
Not wise they sang, nor well, 
Drowning the sexton's bell, 

While all the church wondered, 






372 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

Dire the precentor's glare, 
Flashed his pitchfork in air, 
Sounding fresh keys to bear 

Out the Old Hundred. 
Swiftly he turned his back, 
Reached he his hat from rack, 
Then from the screaming pack 

Himself he sundered. 

Tenors to right of him, 
Trebles to left of him, 
Discords behind him, 

Bellowed and thundered. 
Oh, the wild howls they wrought ; 
Right to the end they fought ! 
Some tune they sung, but not, 

Not the Old Hundred. 



A MARRIED LOVE=LETTER. 

YOUR letter was received, dear John, I write as you request, 
And send the white-winged tidings from our little love-built 
nest. 
We miss you sadly, night and morn. That odious Mr. Dent 
Has called at least a dozen times to dun you for the rent. 

You say it seems an age, my love, since last you went away ; 
But then it's quite a comfort, dear, to know the trip will pay. 
We're saving every penny we can, and living very plain ; 
I had my pocket picked last night, while walking through the rain. 

You count the lagging hours, dear, that keep you from my side ; 
For, as you fondly say, the wife is dearer than the bride. 
That Miss Modiste has sent her bill, I know you'll be amazed ; 
I never got one-half the things — the creature must be crazed ! 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 373 

The children — precious little pets ! — ask daily for papa. 
They all have had such shocking colds, I called in Doctor Law. 
He fears that Nettie's lungs are weak — she seems inclined to stoop ; 
The baby has the nettle rash, and Sammy chronic croup. 

And, oh ! Mamma and Mr. B. have had an awful fuss ; 
Of course, she couldn't stay at Em's, and so she's here with us. 
The girls have "given warning," love; I don't know what to think 
Unless, as dear mamma suspects, they're both inclined to drink. 

I'm feeling sad, and far from well, but then, I know, dear John, 
A long home-letter, just like this, will cheer and help you on. 
I'd like to nestle to your breast and have a hearty cry ; 
Pray don't forget the grocer's bill ! God bless your love ! Good-by ! 



THE RULING PASSION. 

SHE had never mailed a letter before, and so she approached the 
stamp clerk's window with the same air that she would enter 
a dry-goods store. 

" I would like to look at some stamps, please," she said. 

" What denomination do you want ? " asked the clerk. 

" Denomination ! " This was remarked in surprise. She hadn't" 
supposed that stamps belonged to any church at all. 

"Yes," replied the clerk, who saw no necessity for holding a lengthy 
palaver over the sale of a stamp, especially when other people were wait- 
ing. " Is it for a letter or a newspaper ? " 

" O, I want to send a letter to my Uncle John ; he's just moved 
to " 

"Then you need a two-cent stamp," interrupted the clerk, offering 
her one of that value. 

" I hardly like that color," she observed, holding the brick -tinted 
stamp up to the light and surveying it critically. 

The clerk looked at her in astonishment. In his long experience in 






374 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

the postal business he had never before met a customer who objected 
to the color of the stamps. 

" That is a two-cent stamp, madam. Please stand aside, and let the 
gentleman behind you come up." 

" Haven't you got them in any other color ? " she asked, wholly 
oblivious to the " srentleman behind." 

The clerk began to act cross. 

"I never did like that shade of red," she added. 

" There is only one color," he replied curtly. 

" That is strange," she mused. " I'd think you'd keep them in dif- 
ferent shades, so that there' d be some choice." 

The clerk said nothing, but he kept getting crosser every minute, 
and murmurs of disapprobation began to rise from the ever-lengthen- 
ing line of people who would have been thankful to get their stamps 
without criticising their hue. 

" You are sure you have none in a brighter red, or even in a different 
color — Nile green, or seal brown, or jubliee blue, for instance? " 

" You can put two one-cent stamps on your letter if you like," said 
the clerk, who began to see that the customer could not be frowned 
away from the window. 

" Let me see them, please." 

" Two blue stamps were solemnly handed to her, and the crowd 
began to hope that at last she was suited. 

" Ah, that will do," she said, as she took up the one-cent stamps 
and eyed them as if they were samples of dress goods. " I like that 
shade better. I'll take only one, if you please." 

And she handed the other back to the clerk, who took it mechani- 
cally, but managed to add : 

" If it's for a letter you'll need two. These are one-cent stamps and 
letter postage is two cents per ounce." 

"Oh, I don't want to put two stamps on my letter," she said; " I 
don't think they will look well." 

" It requires two cents to carry a letter, madam, and you must 
either put a two-cent stamp on or two ones. It won't go without 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 375 

And I must ask you to please hurry, for you are keeping a great many 
people away from the window." 

" That's singular. I don't like the looks of two together. You are 
sure the other doesn't come in seal-brown, or " 



" No ! " thundered the clerk, getting very red in the face. 
" Then I'll have to see if I can't suit myself elsewhere." 
And she departed. 

The clerk replaced his despised red and blue stamps, mopped his 
perspiring brow, and began to make up for lost time. — Wm.H. Switer. 



I 



A COMPLAINT. 

THINK it really mean— don't you ?- 
To leave us nothing at all to do ! 



In a world all made to order so 
A modern boy has no earthly show. 
Columbus sailed across the sea, 
Which might have been done by you or me, 
And now they call him great and wise, 
They praise his genius and enterprise, 
Although when he found our native land, 
He took it for India's coral strand ! 
There's noble George who wouldn't lie — 
Perhaps he couldn't. He didn't try. 
But if I should cut down a cherry-tree, 
My father would only laugh at me. 

Benjamin Franklin — what did he do ? 
Flew a big kite ; on Sunday, too, 
Standing out in a heavy shower 
Getting soaked for half an hour, 
Fishing for lightning with a string 
To see if he couldn't bottle the thing. 
Suppose I should fly my kite in the rain ? 



376 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

People would say that I wasn't sane. 
Why should there such a difference be 
Between Ben Franklin, Esquire, and me? 

I can see steam move a kettle-lid 
Quite as well as James Watt did, 
And I can explain about engines, too, 
Bigger and better than Watt ever knew : 
But somehow he took all the praise, 
And I'm neglected nowadays. 

Still, what makes me feel the worst 
Is Adam's renown for being first. 
That was easy enough, you know ; 
It was just a thing that happened so. 
And my sister says, "If it had been me 
I wouldn't have touched the apple-tree." 
That's so. If she sees a snake to-day, 
She gives a scream and she scoots away. 

To write such things as Shakespeare's plays 

Was not so hard in Queen Bess's days, 

But now, when everything has been done, 

I cannot think of a single one 

To bring a boy to Avealth and fame, 

It's a regular, downright, burning shame ! 

P. S. — When it's fine I shall play base-ball ; 
For you know it never would do at all 
To forget about " Jack " who becomes, they say, 
A very dull boy, without plenty of play. 
But, wait ! — when a rainy Saturday comes, 
As soon as I've finished Monday's sums, 
I'm going to build a great flying-machine 
That will make T. Edison look pea-green ! 

B. A. Pennypacker. 



5 rpISN'T so rr 
X That the 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 377 

SUNDAY TALK IN THE HORSE SHEDS. 

[Old Gray comments on the service to his mate.] 

much that the Sunday harness never seems to fit, 

collar is tight, an' the check-rein draws on this queer 
new-fangled bit, 
Nor yet that the pasture looks greener, somehow, this sort of a half- 
rest day, 
That galls me most, Old Roan, but the things I hear the people say. 

My shoulders ache, an' my knees are stiff, an' it makes me want to 

fight 
When I hear 'em sing, " O Day of Rest ! O Day of Joy an' Light ! " 
For we startled late, an' to get here soon we had to trot our best ; 
" Welcome " — now hear 'em — " delightful morn, sweet day of sacred 

rest!" 

Now parson's readin' the Scripture, " Remember the Sabbath day — 

In it thou shalt not do any work " — " Amen," the people say ; 

" Thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy cattle, thy ox, nor thy 

ass " — 
Don't seem to exempt the horses, eh ? So we'll let the lesson pass. 

Can't you step over a little ? The sun comes in this side — 

An' it don't say a word about the wife ; I reckon that's why they 

decide 
That Sunday's a day of rest on the farm from the labors of every-day 

life ' 
For everything that the Lord hath made — except the horses an' wife. 

Now, that's our hymn ; come, wake up, Roan, that means us, Til be 

bound — 
"Awake, my soul" — sing louder'n that; some folks sleep mighty 

sound — 
" Awake, my soul, an' with the sun " — that's meant for me an' you — 
" Thy daily course of duty run " — well, that's just what we do. 



378 HUMOROUS READINGS. 









" A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast " — I'd smile 

At the parson's text, but if I did they'd hear me for a mile ; 

For I trotted the last ten minutes lame — I'd picked up a hard, sharp 

stone, 
An' could hear the old man growlin' because his seat was " hard as a 

bone." 

" Could I but climb where Moses stood " — but the half of them 

wouldn't climb ; 
They'd pile in the wagon full's 'twould hold an' ride up every time ; 
If they had to walk they'd do's they did when your pastern joint was 

sprained — 
They'd say 'twas too far, an' stay at home, like they did the times it 

rained. 

I'm goin' to write a hymn some day, an' we'll sing it out in the sheds — 
" Welcome, delightful morn that pours the rain upon our heads ; 
Welcome the slush, the snow that drifts, the mud that irritates, 
The storms that bring a Sabbath rest to the cattle within the gates." 

His voice was hushed, for the notes of song rose on the hallowed air — 

" Praise God from whom all blessings flow " — thanksgiving, praise 
and prayer ; 

"Praise Him all creatures here below" — man, beast, an' bird an' 
thing — 

With the possible exception of the farmer's wife, who, having remained 
at home to prepare a dinner of chicken soup, roast beef, beets, 
onions, roasting ears, salad, pudding, two kinds of pie and 
fruit for her husband, three sons, four daughters, the pastor, 
his wife and two children, the district secretary of the Home 
Mission Society, a distant relative from the city come out to 
spend the day, and two hired men, had very little time, and not 
much breath, and possibly not an everlastingly superabundant 
inclination to sing. 

Robert J. Burdette. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 379 



WE ALL KNOW HER. 



C^ HE warbled the soprano with dramatic sensibility, 



C^ 



And dallied with the organ when the organist was sick ; 
She got up for variety a brand-new church society, and 
Spoke with great facility about the new church brick. 

She shed great tears of sorrow for the heathen immorality, 
And organized a system that would open up their eyes ; 

In culinary clarity she won great popularity, and 
Showed her personality in lecturing on pies. 

For real unvarnished culture she betrayed a great propensity ; 

Her Tuesday-talks were famous and her Friday-glimmers great. 
She grasped at electricity with mental elasticity 

And lectured with intensity about the marriage state. 

But with the calm assurance of her wonderful capacity, 

She wouldn't wash the dishes, but she'd talk all day on rocks ; 

And while she dwelt on density, or space and its immensity, 
With such refined audacity, her mother darned the socks ! 

Tom Mason. 



n 



"OTHING to do but work, 
Nothing to eat but food, 

Nothing to wear but clothes 
To keep one from going nude. 



Nothing to breathe but air ; 

Quick as a flash 'tis gone; 
Nowhere to fall but off, 

Nowhere to stand but on. 



380 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 

Nothing to comb but hair, 
Nowhere to sleep but in bed, 

Nothing to weep but tears, 
Nothing to bury but dead. 

Nothing to sing but songs, 

Ah, well, alas ! Alack ! 
Nowhere to go but out, 

Nowhere to come but back. 

Nothing to see but sights, 

Nothing to quench but thirst, 

Nothing to have but what we've got, 
Thus through life we are cursed. 

Nothing to strike but a gait, 
Everything moves that goes. 

Nothing at all but common sense 
Can ever withstand these woes. 



THE WRONG TRAIN. 

WE had been to town-meeting, had once voyaged a hundred miles 
on a steamboat and had a brother who had made the overland 
trip to California. 
She had been to quiltings, funerals, and a circus or two ; and she 
knew a woman who thought nothing of setting out on a railroad 
journey where she had to wait fifteen minutes at a junction and change 
cars at a depot. 

So I found them, — a cosy-looking old couple, sitting up very 
straight in their seat, and trying to act like old railroad travellers. A 
shadow of anxiety suddenly crossed her face ; she became uneasy, and 
directly she asked : 

" Philetus, I act'lly b'lieve we've went and took the wrong train ! " 
" It can't be, nohow," he replied, seeming a little startled. " Didn't 
I ask the conductor, and he said we was right ? " 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 381 

" Yaas, he did ; but look out the window, and make sure. He 
might have been lyin' to us." 

The old man looked out the window at the flitting fences, the gal- 
loping telegraph-poles, and the unfamiliar fields, as if expecting to 
catch sight of some landmark, and forgetting for a moment that he 
was a thousand miles from home. 

" I guess we're all right, Mary," he said, as he drew in his head. 

" Ask somebody — ask that man there," she whispered. 

" This is the train for Chicago, hain't it?" inquired the old man 
of the passenger in the next seat behind. 

" This is the train," replied the man. 

" There ! didn't I say so ! " clucked the old gent. 

" It may be — it may be ! " she replied, dubiously; " but if we are 
carried wrong, it won't be my fault. I say that we are wrong, and 
when we've been led into some pirate's cave, and butchered for our 
money, ye'll wish ye had heeded my words ! " 

He looked out of the window again, opened his mouth as if to 
make some inquiry of a boy sitting on the fence, and then leaned 
back on his seat and sighed heavily. She shut her teeth together, as 
if saying that she could stand it if he could, and the train sped along 
for several miles. He finally said : 

" Looks like rain over thar in the west. I hope the boys have got 
them oats in." 

" That makes me think of the umbreller !" diving her hands among 
the parcels at their feet. 

She hunted around two or three minutes, growing red in the face, 
and then straightened up and hoarsely whispered : 

" It's gone ! " 

" W — what ? " he gasped. 

" That umbreller ! " 

"No!" 

" Gone, hide and hair ! " so she went on, " that sky-blue umbreller, 
which I've had ever since Martha died." 

He searched around, but it was not to be found. 



382 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

" Waal, that's queer," he mused, as he straightened up. 

" Queer ! not a bit. I've talked to ye and talked to ye, but it does 
no good. Ye come from a heedless fam'ly ; and ye'd forget to put 
on your boots, 'f I didn't tell ye to." 

" None of the Harrisons was ever in the poor-house ! " he replied, 
in a cutting tone. 

" Philetus! Philetus H. Harrison! " she continued, laying her hand 
on his arm, " don"t you dare twit me of that again ! I've lived with 
ye nigh on to forty years and waited on ye when ye had biles and 
the toothache and the colic, and when ye fell and broke your leg • 
but don't push me up to the wall ! " 

He looked out of the window, feeling that she had the advantage of 
him, and she wiped her eyes, settled her glasses on her nose, and used 
up the next fifteen minutes in thinking of the past. Feeling thirsty, 
she reached down among the bundles, searched around, and her face 
was as pale as death as she straightened back and whispered — 

" And that's gone, too ! " 

" What now ? " he asked, 

"It's been stole ! " she exclaimed, looking around the car, as if ex- 
pecting to see some one with the bottle to his lips. 

" Fust the umbreller — then the bottle ! " she gasped. 

" I couldn't have left it, could I ?" 

" Don't ask me ! That bottle has been in our family twenty years, 
ever since mother died ; and now it's gone ! Land only knows what 
I'll do for a camfire bottle when we git home, if we ever do ! " 

" I'll buy one." 

" Yes, I know ye are always ready to buy ; and if it wasn't for me 
to restrain ye, the money'd fly life feathers in the wind." 

" Waal, I didn't have to mortgage my farm," he replied, giving her 
a knowing look. 

" Twitting agin ? It isn't enough that you've lost a good umbreller 
and a camfire bottle; but 3^011 must twit me o' this and that." 

Her nose grew red, and tears came to her eyes ; but as he was 
looking out of the window, she said nothing further. Ten or fifteen 






HUMOROUS READINGS. 383 

minutes passed ; and, growing restless, he called out to a man across 
the aisle. 

" What's the sile around here ? " 

" Philetus ! Philetus H. Harrison ! stop your noise ! " she whispered, 
poking him with her elbow. 

" I just asked a question," he replied, resuming his old position. 

" What'd your brother Joab tell ye, the last thing afore we left him 
hum? " she asked. " Didn't he say somebody'd swindle ye on the 
string game, the confidence game, or some other game ? Didn't he 
warn ye agin rascals ? " 

" I hain't seen no rascals." 

" Of course, ye haven't, 'cause yer blind! I know that man is a 
villun ; and if they don't arrest him for murder afore we leave this 
train, I'll miss my guess. I can read human-natur' like a book." 

There was another period of silence, broken by her saying : 

" I wish I knew that this was the train for Chicago." 

" 'Course it is." 

" How do you know ? " 

" 'Cause it is." 

" Waal, I know it hain't ; but if you are contented to rush along to 
your destruction, I shan't say a word. Only when yer throat is being 
cut, don't call out that I didn't warn ye ! " 

The peanut boy came along, and the old man reached down for his 
wallet. 

" Philetus, ye shan't squander that money after peanuts ! " she ex- 
claimed, using the one hand to catch his arm, and the other to wave 
the boy on. 

"Didn't I earn it?" 

" Yaas, you sold two cows to get money to go on this visit ; but it's 
half gone now, and the land only knows how we'll get home ! " 

The boy walked on, and the flag of truce was hung out for another 
brief time. She recommenced hostilities by remarking : 

" I wish I hadn't cum." 

He looked up, and then out of the window. 



384 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

" I know what ye want to say," she hissed ; " but it's a blessed 
good thing for you that I did come ! If ye'd come alone, ye'd have 
been murdered and gashed and scalped, and sunk into the river afore 
now ! " 

" Pooh ! " . 

" Yes, pooh, 'f you want to, but I know ! " 

He leaned back ; she settled herself anew ; and by and by — 

He nodded' — she nodded. And in sleep their gray heads touched ; 
and his arm found its way along the back of the seat, and his hand 
rested on her shoulder. — M. Quad. 



HOW FATHER CARVES THE DUCK. 

T T"E all look on with anxious eyes, 
j/y_ When father carves the duck, 
And mother almost always sighs, 
When father carves the duck. 
Then all of us prepare to rise 
And hold our bibs before our eyes 
And be prepared for some surprise, 
When father carves the duck. 

He braces up and grabs a fork, 

Whene'er he carves a duck, 
And won't allow a soul to talk*, 

Until he carves the duck. 
The fork is jabbed into the sides, 
Across the breast the knife he slides, 
While every careful person hides 
From flying chips of duck. 

The platter's always sure to slip, 
When father carves the duck. 
And how it makes the dishes skip ! 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 385 

Potatoes fly amuck. 
The squash and cabbage leap in space, 
And father mutters Hindoo grace, 

Whene'er he carves a duck. 

We all have learned to walk around 

The dining-room, and pluck 
From off the window-sills and walls 

Our share of father's duck, 
While father growls and blows and jaws, 
And swears the knife is full of flaws, 
And mother jeers at him, because 

He cannot carve a duck. 



THE MEN WHO DO NOT LIFT. 

THE world is sympathetic; the statement none can doubt. 
When A's in trouble don't we think that B should help him 
out? 
Of course, we haven't time ourselves to care for any one, 
But yet we hope that other folks will see that it is done. 
We want the grief and penury of earth to be relieved ; 
We'd have the battles grandly fought, the victories achieved ; 
We do not care to take the lead, and stand the brush and brunt; 
At lifting we're a failure, but we're splendid on the grunt. 

And there are others, so we find, as on our way we jog, 
Who want to do .their lifting on the small end of the log ; 
They do a lot of blowing, and they strive to make it known 
That were there no one else to help, they'd lift it all alone. 
If talking were effective, there are scores and scores of men 
Who'd move a mountain off its base and move it back again. 
But as a class, to state it plain, in language true and blunt, 
They're never worth a cent to lift, for all they do is grunt. 






386 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

GOING ON AN ERRAND. 

7T p OUND of tea at one-and-three, 
' _^~\_ And a pot of raspberry jam, 

Two new-laid eggs, a dozen pegs, 
And a pound of rashers of ham." 

I'll say it over all the way, 

And then I'm sure not to forget, 

For if I chance to bring things wrong 
My mother gets in such a pet. 

"A pound of tea at one-and-three, 
And a pot of raspberry jam, 
Two new-laid eggs, a dozen pegs, 
And a pound of rashers of ham." 

There in the hay the children play — 
They're having such jolly fun ; 

I'll go there, too, that's what I'll do, 
As soon as my errands are done. 

"A pound of tea at one-and-three, 
A pot of — er — new-laid jam, 
Two raspberry eggs, with a dozen pegs 
And a pound of rashers of ham." 

There's Teddy White ^-flying his kite, 
He thinks himself grand, I declare ; 

I'd like to try to fly it sky high, 
Ever so much higher 
Than the old church spire, 

And then — and then — but there — 

"A pound of three and one at tea, 
A pot of new-laid jam, 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 387 

Two dozen eggs, some raspberry pegs, 
And a pound of rashers of ham." 

Now here's the shop, outside I'll stop 

And run through my orders again : 
I haven't forgot — -no, ne'er a jot — 

It shows I'm pretty cute, that's plain. 

'A pound of three at one and tea, 

A dozen of raspberry ham, 
A pot of eggs, with a dozen pegs, 

And a rasher of new-laid jam." 



HER EXCU5E. 

SAID the school teacher, who lives at a hotel, "Miss, you are five 
minutes late this morning, and you were two minutes late 
yesterday. Now there is no excuse for such tardiness, no 
excuse at all." 

" Please, ma'am the alarm clock stopped last night, and it was 
so dark and foggy this morning that the girl did not wake up until late, 
and then, trying to get to the kitchen window in the dark, she upset some 
water on the kindling wood; it was the water the mackeral was soak- 
ing in, and it was on a chair, and the wood was under it, and then 
because the wood was wet the fire wouldn't burn, and the other wood 
we ordered the day before hadn't come, and the neighbor in the next 
flat hadn't any either, and the girl had to go to the store for some, and 
she was a good while getting there, and then the storekeeper told her 
she needn't bring it, 'cause he would send it right around before she 
got back, and 'cause she didn't know him she believed him, and when 
she got back the wood wasn't there, and it was a long time before it 
came and then it was all wet from the fog and rain, 'cause he didn't 
cover it up, and when we tried to start the fire again it wouldn't burn 
any better than the first time, and then Mammy hurried down to our 



388 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 



kind neighbor in the next flat to get the use of her stove, but they 
were getting their breakfast and we could only use one hole at a time, 
and our kettles and pans wouldn't fit their stove, and we had to wait 
till some of theirs was cleaned, and then Mamma tried to cook some 
oatmeal so I could hurry and get to school, and then the baker didn't 
come, and the girl had to go out for bread while I dressed Sally and 
Johnny and Mamie, and then the baby woke and began to cry hard as 
if he was hurt, and Mamma hurried up stairs to see what was the 
matter, and, while she was finding out, the oatmeal burned, and we 
had to wait until the kettle could be cleaned and some more cooked, 
and when that was done I hurried and ate a little so I wouldn't be late 
to school, and I had just time to get here, but Johnny got the nose 
bleed awful, and I had to wait until Mamma could get through with 
him and wash her hands so she could write me an excuse for bein' late 
yesterday. 



ASKING MOTHER. 

SHE was a girl as neat and trim, 
And sweet as any other ; 
I wanted just to make a call — 
She said she'd ask her mother. 



I hinted that it might be nice 

For her to have a brother : 
She thought awhile and looked perplexed- 

And said she'd ask her mother. 

To have a mother such as that 
I told her was a bother ; 
"Perhaps it was — she didn't know" — 
But said she'd ask her mother. 



This answer, then, I thought she'd give, 
And never give another ; 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 389 

I queried if 'twould not be so — 
She said she'd ask her mother. 

I hadn't a dime — the night was hot — 
She really thought she'd smother : 
"Ice cream!" I whispered in her ear — 
She didn't ask her mother! 

Nonplussed, my grammar I upset, 

Changed rather into ruther, 
And told her that I ruther thought 

She'd better ask her mother. 

Henry Davenport. 



TIT FOR TAT. 

«OOD mornin', Miss Katie," cried young Dickie Fee — 



G°°' 



Good mornin' again — it's yourself, shure, I see 
Lookin' bloomin' as ever ! " But Kate turned away 
As she said, " Masther Dickie, I wish you good day ; 
You're a heartless desaiver — now don't speak a word. 
Pretty stories about you and that Nora I've heard ! 
You know you danced with her that day- of the fair — 
And praised her gray eyes — and her very red hair ; 
You called her an angel, said in love you had fell, 
And at night when you parted, you kissed her, as well." 
Then young Dickie gave a sly wink as he said, 
-Just a whisper, dear Katie, this may turn your head — 
I desaived her, my darlin' " "You kissed her!" "That's true, 
But I shut both my eyes, Katie, and fancied 'twas you ! " 

"Well, I've no time to stay, so good-bye, Dickie Fee, 
You may desaive her, but you can't desaive me ; 
I'm not to be blarneyed — Dick, a word in your ear, 
You had better be off, for my dad's coming here ! " 






390 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

"Your dad's coming, is he? Is that him I see 
Just bobbing behind the ould black-thorn tree ? 
Why, that's Paddy McGinn"— "Oh! " said Kate with a sneer, 

"You have got your eyes open at last, Dickie dear; 
Well, he's coming to meet me — now listen, my lad : 
If Paddy should kiss me, sure, won't you be glad ? 
For when his lips meet mine, why, what will I do 
But shut both my eyes, Dickie, and fancy 'tis you." 



THE GLORIOUS FOURTH. 

)f I "MS an everlasting pity that the youngsters in the city 

1 Cannot celebrate the lesson which we gave to George the 
Third ; 
When the Nation had to sit on the insufferable Briton — 

Why, it's scandalous. What ails the city fathers, anyhow? 
The old toAvn won't burn uo. A conflagration or two would 
help to make things lively, and would rouse the Fire De- 
partment from its chronic state of innocuous desuetude. I'll 
load up with all sorts of explosives, and my youngsters can 
be patriotic in the back lot — 
And we'll have the biggest jubilee the neighbors ever heard." 

So he loaded up his pockets, with torpedoes and with rockets, 

And a dozen packs of crackers v tucked away beneath his arm. 

Devil chasers, squibs and fizzes, everything that pops and whizzes — 
And, on the morning of the Fourth, he distributed them 
among his offspring with a lavish hand. They blew up 
miniature fortifications ; defeated the British one by one ; 
constructed a Vesuvius or two, and were wildly happy 
until, accidentally or otherwise, a pack of crackers went off 
in the old man's coat pocket, and they had to turn the 
garden hose on him before — 

He recovered his composure or dispelled his wife's alarm. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 391 

Though his coat was burned and tattered, still he said it little mat- 
tered, 

For the garment was an old one and his losses would be slight. 

And again in wild ascendance rose the vim of Independence — 

Until his little 8-year-old wanted papa to " turn an' see de 
big boo " he was making. Bing, bang, boom ! " Dere 'tis ! " 
shouted the youngster, as the appreciative old man hurried 
in that direction, and found half a pack of fire-crackers 
knocking his new silk tile to ribbons, and he turned the 
youngster wrong end up — 

And warmed it to the last degrees of sultry Fahrenheit. 

Then his ardor patriotic grew uncommonly chaotic, 
He would stop this jubilation ere it set the town agog 
Fun was fun in due restrictions, but — ten thousand maledictions ! ! ! — • 
Just then his favorite spaniel ran between his legs and bit 
off a generous slice of calf in passing. A whole pack of 
crackers was attached to the animal's tail, exploding at the 
rate of five per second. The cur made a bee-line for the 
stable and ran under the foundation, and they had to turn 
the horses loose and rip up the floor before — 
They could quench the conflagration or resuscitate the dog. 

Shades of Lucifier and Hades ! if it wasn't for the ladies 

We could show the scope of language when the temper has its way : 

That a warm vocabulary melts restrictions arbitrary — 

And several? other things, but just then we left, for another 
youngster burned his fingers and dropped a piece of hot 
punk in the box containing the balance of the fireworks, and 
in a minute the air was volcanic with sky-rockets, Roman 
candles, pin wheels, blue devils and expletives. To cap the 
climax, a rocket struck the old gentleman amidships, and 
— that settled it. Enough was enough. He gathered his 
offspring all about him — 
And he kept them in the cellar for the balance of the day. 



392 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 



MR. MOLONEY'S ACCOUNT OF THE BALL. 

OWILL ye choose to hear the news, 
Bedad I cannot pass it o'er : 
I'll tell you all about the Ball 
To the Naypaulase Ambassador. 
Begor ! this fete all balls does bate 

At which I've worn a pump, and I 
Must here relate the splendthor great 
Of th' Oriental Company. 

These men of sinse dispoised expinse, 

To fete these black Achilleses. 
"We'll show the blacks," says they, " Almack's, 

And take the rooms at Willis's." 
With flags and shawls, for these Nepauls, 

They hung the rooms of Willis up, 
And decked the walls, and stairs, and halls, 

With roses and with lilies up. 

And Jullien's band it tuck its stand, 

So sweetly in the middle there, 
And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes 

And violins did fiddie there. 
And when the Coort was tired of spoort, 

I'd lave you, boys, to think there was 

ft 

A nate buffet before them set, 

Where lashins of good dhrink there was. 

At ten before the ball-room door, 

His moighty Excellency was, 
He smoiled and bowed to all the crowd, 

So gorgeous and immense he was. 
His dusky shuite, sublime and mute, 

Into the door-way followed him ; 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 393 

And O the noise of the blackguard boys, 
As they hurrood and hollowed him. 

The noble Chair stud at the stair, 

And bade the dthrums to thump ; and he 
Did thus evince, to that Black Prince, 

The welcome of his Company. 
O fair the girls, and rich the curls, 

And bright the oys you saw there, was : 
And fixed each oye, ye there could spoi, 

On Gineral Jung Bahawther, was ! 

This Gineral great then tuck his sate, 

With all the other ginerals, 
(Bedad his troat, his belt, his coat, 

All bleezed with precious minerals) ; 
And as he there, with princely air, 

Recloinin' on his cushion was, 
All round about his royal chair 

The squeezin' and the pushin' was. 

O Pat, such girls, such Jukes, and Earls, 

Such fashion and nobilitee ! 
Just think of Tim, and fancy him 

Amidst the hoigh gentilitee ! 
There was Lord De L'Huys, and the Portygeese 

Ministher and his lady there, 
And I reckonized, with much surprise, 

Our messmate, Bob O'Grady, there; 

There was Baroness Brunow, that looked like Juno, 

And Baroness Rehausen there, 
And Countess Roullier, that looked peculiar 

Well, in her robes of gauze in there. 



394 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first 

When only Mr. Pips he was), 
And Mick O 'Toole, the great big fool, 

That after supper tipsy was. 

There was Lord Fingall, and his ladies all, 

And Lords Killeen and Dufferin, 
And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife ; 

I wondther how he could stuff her in. 
There was Lord Belfast, that by me past, 

And seemed to ask how should / go there ? 
And the Widow Macrae, and Lord A. Hay, 

And the Marchioness of Slis'o there. 



'to 1 



Yes, Jukes, and Earls, and diamonds, and pearls, 

And pretty girls, w r as sporting there ; 
And some beside (the rogues !) I spied, 

Behind the windies, coorting there. 
O, there's one I know, bedad would show 

As beautiful as any there, 
And I'd like to hear the pipers blow, 

And shake a fut with Fanny there. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



s 



« THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN." 

OME folks 're allers findin' fault 'nd frettin' round y' know. 
The older that they git in years the wus they seem tu grow. 
It's kinder second natur' tu some folks that I have found, 
'Nd all the fun they seem tu git is jest to fret around. 



If it should rain, then it's the mud that sets 'em all awry ; 
If it don't rain, then it's the dust a-blowin' in their eye ; 
If clouds arise, of comin' storms they are a willin' reader; 
'Nd if the day is clear 'nd bright, then it's a weather-breeder. 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 395 

If it is cold, they shiver round 'nd call the weather horrid ; 
If it is warm, they sweat and fret about the weather torrid ; 
If it is summer, then they scowl 'nd long for winter cool ; 
' Nd if it's winter, they will yearn for summer ez a rool. 

If they have money, ev'ry one is arter it, they think ; 
' Nd bound somehow tu beat 'em 'nd appropriate their chink ; 
If they are poor, they think they are the worst abused of all 
The creeturs of God's providence upon this rollin' ball. 

'Nd if they have a family, they're always sartin sure 

No other man could such a wife or child ez theirs endure ; 

' Nd if they're single, they bewail their sad 'nd lonely lot, 

' Nd say when plums are passed around they allers are forgot. 

' Nd so it goes, the goodness knows if any fun they git 
In findin' fault with Providence they need it every bit ; 
But how under the canopy they manage tu gitTound 
On the wust side of everything beats anything I've found. 

The sun shines jest ez bright on 'em ez 't does on you 'nd me, 
' Nd none of us kin dodge the storms of life ez I kin see ; 
But why some folks 'd rather count the storms than pleasant days 
Is somethin' I don't understand and fills me with amaze. 

The birds sing no less sweetly 'cause a sunny day has passed ; 
The apple-trees don't cease tu bloom when they no shadder cast ; 
The cattle on a thousand hills don't lose their appetite 
'Nd beller round because they ain't in clover day 'nd night. 

If bees can't find a clover patch they put up with buckwheat ; 
They're jest ez happy, 'nd I guess the honey's jest ez sweet. 
There ain't a creetur livin', 'cept the human, ez I know, 
That loves tu fret 'n' grumble round ; now, neighbor, ain't it so ? 

William Edward Penney. 




396 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 

THE NOBLE STRANGER. 

fanny's letter. 

I SAW him, Lucy, only once; 
'Twas down the lighted hall ; 
He moved to music gracefully, 

A stranger to us all — 
A stranger with a pale, white brow, 

And dark and meaning eye, 
Which flashed like lightning on my own 
Whene'er I passed him by. 

Those soul-lit eyes, they haunt me still ; 

So passionately deep ! 
Like those which sometimes beam on us 

In visions of our sleep. 
So sad, as if some shadowy grief 

Had o'er his spirit gone, 
Yet brightening whene'er it caught 

The answer of my own. 

I knew him not, and yet whene'er 

I turned me from the dance 
I saw those dark eyes follow me — 

It could not be by chance. 
I knew him not, and yet his tones 

Were breathed upon my ear 
So sweetly low and musical, 

I could not choose but hear. 



He spoke of disappointed hopes ; 

Of dreams which faded soon ; 
The dew-drops of life's joyous morn, 

Which vanished ere its noon. 
And then, dear Lucy, how he sighed ! 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 397 

My eyes grew strangely dim ! 
It pained my heart to hear him sigh : 
I could have wept for him. 

He spoke of sunny Italy; 

Of Venice and her isles ; 
Of dark-mustachioed cavaliers 

And fair signoras' smiles ; 
Of music melting on the ear ; 

Of moonlight upon bowers ; 
And fair hands wreathing silken curls, 

With gay and fragrant flowers. 

He said his father's castle 

Frowned upon a distant shore, 
(A castle, Lucy, think of that — 

He is a Count, or more !) 
That solitude was in its walls, 

Drear, prison-like and lone ; 
Ungladdened by the smile of love, 

Or woman's kindly tone. 

We parted at my father's door, 

The moonlight sweetly shone ; 
And I was standing at his side, 

My arm upon his own, 
He pressed my hand at parting ; 

And to-night he will be here, 
While pa is at his game of chess, 

And ma is nowhere near. 

Excuse me, dearest Lucy, 

But, indeed, I cannot write. 
To-morrow I will tell you more; 

He will be here to-night. 
[An interval of twenty -four hours has elapsed.] 






398 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

Oh, dearest Lucy, pity me ! 

I really think I'm dying ! 
My heart is like a heart of lead ; 

My eyes are red with crying ! 
For yesterday the bank was robbed, 

And of a large amount ! 
My father caught the robber 

And — oh, dear, it was my Count! 



MICKEY COACHES HIS FATHER. 

T'M thinkin','' said Mr. Finn to his son Mickey, as they sat on 

' JL the back stoop after supper, "that I'll be givin' up workin' in 
the quarry an' thry me hand at brain work." 

"Figgerin'?" 

"Figgerin' or writin'. Now, you have no knowledge, Mickey — 
fwat kind o' sums would I have to be doin' if I got the job o' s'aler o' 
woights and measures ? " 

"It's the sums ye'd have to be doin' afore ye got the job as 'ud 
bother ye, father. Shure the civil service min 'ud be axin' ye ques- 
tions that the schoolmaster couldn't answer." 

" Musha, I didn't know that, me b'y. Fwhat's the civil sarvice min, 
anyhow?" 

"They're min as is paid by the prisidint fur axin' foolish questions," 
replied little Mike, "an' I have a buke in the house as has a lot o' the 
questions in. If ye'll come inside I'll l'arn thim to ye." 

Mr. Finn arose with alacrity, lit the lamp and placed it upon the 
table. Then he lit his pipe and waited impatiently while his son 
hunted up a book on natural phenomena he had procured from the 
school library. While Mickey leafed through the book, Mr. Finn said: 

" Now, you tache me the questions be heart, an' ye'll not be sorry 
whin I get the job." 

"Why don't the dust fly be night? " said Mickey, from the chapter 
on "Dew." 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 399 

"Faix, it do," replied Mr. Finn, " only ye can't see it— -bekase o' the 
dark." 

" Yer wrong. That's not the rayson in the buke." 

"Fwhat does the buke say? " 

"Bekase the dew makes the dust wet an' kapes it from risin'," 
answered the boy. 

"That's raysonable. I dunno how is this I didn't think of it afore. 
Begorra, I have it down on me moind agin the time the civil service 
min '11 be axin' me the question." 

"Why will a dewdrop roll on a cabbage leaf widout makin' the cab- 
bage wet?" continued little Mike. 

Mr. Finn was puzzled. He passed his hand over his forehead to 
collect his thoughts. "Musha, that's thrue fur ye, Mickey. I often 
seen it meself. I haven't that much knowledge as 'ud fill yer mother's 
thimble. Is it bekase the dewdrop is round ? " 

Mickey shook his head. " Do ye give it up ? Because the leaves 
o' cabbage are covered with a fine powdher over which the dewdrop 
rolls without wettin' the leaves." 

"Dear, dear, an' is all that in the little buke? " 

"Faith, it is, an' more." 

"But fwhat has thim to do wid the woights in a store, Mickey? " 
inquired Mr. Finn. 

" Ye'll have to be axin' the prisidint, if it's knowledge ye're wantin' 
about that," replied the boy, as he turned to the book and resumed 
the lesson. But Mike's resort to the book in this instance was only 
seeming. He had determined to ask some questions from his own 
knowledge of natural science. 

" Fwhat makes the foam on a growler o' beer ? " 

" Oh, ho, I have ye thare, me laddy," said Mr. Finn, with a smile 
and a wise nod. " I have ye thare, me b'y. I could answer that wid 
me eyes shut." 

" Well, father," said Mickey, " fwhat is it ? " 

" It's just this an' no more," said the elder Finn, wagging his index 
finger in his son's direction. " It's bekase whin Jack Brady draws the 



400 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 



beer he holds the pail far down from the spigot so thare'll be more 
bubbles nor liquor." 

" Ye're wrong, father; that's not fwhat the buke says." 

" Arrah, to blazes wid the buke, b'y ! Didn't I see it wid me two 
eyes, an' wouldn't a man believe his eyes afore an ould buke? Eyes 
is better nor bukes, me lad. Didn't I see Jack holdin' the pail close up 
to the spigot an' thare'll be a foine pint fur 8 cints an' divil's the bubble 
ye'd see. Arrah, don't be talkin' ! When I know a thing I know it, 
sonny, an' small fear but fwhat I'll spake me moind. Tell us fwhat 
the buke says, just for divarshun." 

" F-i-r — fir — m-i-n — min — t-a — ta — t-i-o-n — shun, firmintation," read 
Mike. 

"An' fwhat's that?" 

" It is a change," said Mickey, " effected in the elements of a body 
made of car-bon, hydro-gin, an' oxy-gin." 

" That must be Frinch ye're readin', Mickey," said his father. 
" Thare's ne'er a wan o' thim things in beer. Foix, oxy-gin an' hydro- 
gin is new kinds intoirely. I heerd tell o' Old Tom gin an' London 
Dock gin, an' tasted thim, too, fur that matther, but divil's the word 
did I iver hear o' thim other kinds. Begorra, yer ould buke is no 
good, Mickey. Beer is made from malt an' hops, an' divil a pinch o' 
firmintation or oxy-gin or hydro-gin is thare in it at all, at all. 
L'arnin' is makin' ye looney, me b'y." 

" Father, yer wrong. Thim things I spoke of is gas. They're 
pizen. An' thare's another kind o' gas in beer, too. It's called car- 
bonic acid gas. It's that pizen that a little of it'll kill ye deader nor a 
salt mackerel. In the island o' Javy is a valley, where thare's that 
much carbonic acid gas that the grass is kilt, an' ne'er a dog, or a cat, 
or anything can live thare. If ye throw a dog in the valley he'll be 
dead in fourteen seconds, an' whin the birds fly over the valley they 
drop down dead into it. It is called the pizen valley, an' the stuff in 
that valley is in beer, an' gives it that pleasant taste on yer tongue that 
makes ye smack yer lips whin ye're drinkin' it." 

The next morning Mr. Finn went down to the village to undergo an 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 401 

examination for the position of sealer of weights and measures. When 
his turn came the examiner said, turning to Mr. Finn : 

" Now, Mr. Finn, how many weights does a grocer use in business?" 

Mr. Finn scratched his head and looked wild. 

" Faith, sir," said he, " I can tell ye all about dew, an' beer-foam, an' 
goats, but nothin' at all about woights. I heerd it was civil sarvice 
min ye were, but shure, I'll tell ye straight, it's mighty uncivil min I 
I find ye to be." — Ernest Jarrold. 



AUNT TABITHA. 

"Y "THATEVER I do and whatever I say, 
j/SL Aunt Tabitha tells me that isn't the way ; 
When she was a girl, (forty summers ago,) 
Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so. 

Dear aunt ! if I only would take her advice, — 
But I like my own way, and I find it so nice ! 
And, besides, I forget half the things I am told ; 
But they will come back to me, — -when I am old. 

If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt, 
He may chance to look in as I chance to look out : 
She would never endure an impertinent stare ; 
It is horrid, she says, and I mustn't sit there. 

A walk in the moonlight has pleasure, I own, 
But it isn't quite safe to be walking alone ; 
So I take a lad's arm,— just for safety, you know; 
But Aunt Tabitha tells me, they didn't do so. 

How wicked we are, and how good they were then ! 
They kept at arm's length those detestable men ; 
What an era of virtue she lived in ! — but stay,— 
Were the men such sly rogues in Aunt Tabitha 's day ? 
26. 



402 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 



If the men were so wicked, — I'll ask my papa 
How he dared to propose to my darling mamma? 
Was he like the rest of them ? goodness ! who knows ? 
And what shall I say, if a wretch should propose ? 

I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin, 
What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been ! 
And her grand-aunt, — it scares me, — how shockingly sad 
That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad ! 

A martyr will save us, and nothing else can ; 
Let us perish to rescue some wretched young man ! 
Though, when to the altar a victim I go, 
Aunt Tabitha'll tell me — she never did so. 

O. W. Holmes. 

GOSSIP. 

THERE once lived a creature — if I've not been deceived — 
In whom the old ancients devoutly believed, 
And of all things incredible, wondrous and strange, 
Is the fact that at will his coarse face he could change, 
So that if you met him a thousand times o'er, 
You could not be sure you had met him before. 
But that he was a monster you ne'er had a doubt, 
For once you had met him you soon found him out. 
He assured you at first that quite harmless was he, 
But once in his clutches you ne'er could get free ! 
If the arrows of ill which at others he hurled 
Were all made in a ring, they would circle the world. 
Now, the name of this monster I really forget, 
But, if you'll believe me, he's prowling round yet! 
His name, if I knew it, I'd certainly tell, 
But the name of "Old Gossip" will do quite as well. 
So friends, with best wishes, whatever you do, 
Don't let the old Beast get acquainted with you. 

May Cooper. 



I 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 403 

FARMER JOHN. 

F I'd nothing to do," said Farmer John, 



" To fret and bother me— 
Were I but rid of this mountain of work, 
What a good man I could be ! 

" The pigs get out and the cows get in 
Where they have no right to be ; 
And the weeds in the garden and the corn — 
Why, they fairly frighten me. 

" It worries me out of my temper quite, 
And well-nigh out of my head ; 
What a curse it is that a man must toil 
Like this for his daily bread ! " 

But Farmer John he broke his leg ! 
And was kept for many a week 

A helpless and an idle man- 
Was he, therefore, mild and meek ? 

Nay, what with the pain and what with the fret 

Of sitting with nothing to do — 
And the farm work botched by a shiftless hand — 

He got very cross and blue. 

He scolded the children and cuffed the dog 

That frawned about his knee ; 
And snarled at his wife, though she was kind 

And patient as wife could be. 

He grumbled, and whined, and fretted, and fumed, 
The whole of the long day through. 
" 'Twill ruin me quite," cried Farmer John, 
" To sit here with nothing to do ! " 



404 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

His hurt got well, and he went to work, 

And a busier man than he, 
A happier man or a pleasanter man, 

You never would wish to see. 

The pigs got out, and he drove them back, 

Whistling right merrily : 
He mended the fence and kept the cows 

Just where they ought to be. 

Weeding- the garden was first-rate fun, 
And ditto hoeing the corn. 
" I'm happier far," said Farmer John, 
" Than I've been since I was born." 

He learned a lesson that lasts him well — 
'Twill last him his whole life through, 

He frets but seldom, and never because 
He has plenty of work to do. 

" I'll tell you what," said Farmer John, 
" They are either knaves or fools 
Who long to be idle — for idle hands 
Are the devil's chosen tools." 



cc 



D' 



THE WITNESS. 

O you know the prisoner well ? " asked the attorney. 
" Never knew him sick," was the reply. 
"No levity," said the lawyer, sternly. " Now, sir, did you 
ever see the prisoner at the bar ? '.' 

" Took many a drink with him at the bar." 

"Answer my question, sir! " yelled the lawyer. "How long have 
you known him? " 

"From two feet up to five feet ten inches." 
" Will the Court make the — " 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 405 

"I have, Jedge," said the witness. " I have answered the question. 
I knowed the prisoner when he was a boy two feet long, and a man 
five feet ten." 

" Your Honor—" 

" It's fact, Jedge, I'm under oath," persisted the witness. 

The lawyer arose, placed both hands in front of him, spread his legs 
apart, leaned his body over the table, and said : 

" Will you tell the Court what you know about this case? " 

" That ain't his name ! " replied the witness. 

" What ain't his name ? " 

" Case." 

"Who said it was? " 

" You did. You wanted to know what I knew about this case. His 
name's Smith." 

"Your Honor," howled the attorney, "will you make this man 
answer ? " 

" Witness," said the Judge, " you must answer the questions put to 
you." 

"Land o' Goshen, Jedge, hain't I been doin' it? Let the blamed 
dunce fire away, I'm all ready." 

"Then," said the lawyer, "don't beat about the bush any more. 
You and the prisoner have been friends? " 

" Never," promptly replied the witness. 

"What! Wasn't you summoned here as a friend?" 

" No, sir; I was summoned here as a Presbyterian. Nary one of 
us was ever Friends. He's an old-line Baptist, without a drop of 
Quaker in him." 

" Stand down ! " yelled the lawyer. 

"Hey?" 

"Stand down!" 

"Can't do it, I'll sit down or stand up — " 

"Sheriff, remove the man from the box." 

Witness retires, muttering : " Well, if he ain't the thick-headedst fool 
I ever—" 



406 HUMOROUS READINGS. 

SOCRATES SNOOKS. 

MISTER Socrates Snooks, a lord of creation, 
The second time entered the marriage relation : 
Xantippe Caloric accepted his hand, 
And they thought him the happiest man in the land. 
But scarce had the honeymoon passed o'er his head, 
When one morning to Xantippe, Socrates said, 
"I think, for a man of my standing in life, 
This house is too small, as I now have a wife : 
So, as early as possible, carpenter Carey 
Shall be sent for to widen my house and my dairy." 

"Now, Socrates dearest," Xantippe replied, 

" I hate to hear everything vulgarly my'd ; 
Now, whenever you speak of your chattels again, 
Say, our cow-house, our barn-yard, our pig-pen." 

" By your leave, Mrs. Snooks, I will say what I please 
Of my houses, my lands, my gardens, my trees.'' 

"Say our" Xantippe exclaimed in a rage. 

"I won't, Mrs. Snooks, though you ask it an age!" 

Oh, woman ! though only a part of man's rib, 

If the story in Genesis don't tell a fib, 

Should your naughty companion e'er quarrel with you, 

You are certain to prove the best man of the two. 

In the following case this was certainly true ; 

For the lovely Xantippe just pulled off her shoe, 

And laying about her, on all sides at random, 

The adage was verified — "Nil desperandum." 

Mister Socrates Snooks, after trying in vain 
To ward off the blows which descended like rain — 
Concluding that valor's best part was discretion, 
Crept under the bed like a terrified Hessian ; 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 407 

But the dauntless Xantippe, not one whit afraid, 
Converted the siege into a blockade. 

At last, after reasoning the thing in his pate, 
He concluded 'twas useless to strive against fate : 
And so, like a tortoise protuding his head, 
Said, " My dear, may we come out from under our bed ? " 
"Hah ! hah ! " she exclaimed, " Mr. Socrates Snooks, 
I perceive you agree to my terms by your looks : 
Now, Socrates — hear me — from this happy hour, 
If you'll only obey me, I'll never look sour." 

Tis said the next Sabbath, ere going to church, 
He chanced for a clean pair of trousers to search : 
Having found them, he asked, with a few nervous twitches, 
" My dear, may we put on our new Sunday breeches ? " 



HOW GIRLS 5TUDY. 

DID you ever see two girls get together to study of an evening ? 
I have, and it generally goes like this : 
"In 1673 Marquette discovered the Mississippi. In 1673 

Marquette dis What did you say, Ide ? You had ever so much 

rather see the hair coiled than braided ? — Yes, so had I. It's so much 
more stylish, and then it looks 'classical, too ; but how do you like — 
Oh ! dear, I can never learn this lesson ! 

"In 1863 Lafayette discovered the Wisconsin. In 1863 Lafayette 
discovered the — well ! what's the matter with me, anyhow ! In 1673 
Marquette discovered the Mississippi. I don't care if he did. I sup- 
pose the Mississippi would have gotten along just as well if Marquette 
had never looked at it. Now, see here, Ide, is there anything about 
my looks that would give you to understand that I know when Co- 
lumbus founded Jamestown and how George Washington won the 
battle of Shiloh ? Of course, there isn't. History's a horrid study 
anyhow. No use neither. Nov/, French is much nicer. I can in- 



408 



HUMOROUS READINGS. 



troduce French phrases very often, and one must know I have studied 
the language. What is the lesson for to-morrow ? Oh, yes ; con- 
jugation of parler. Let's see; how does it commence? Je parle, tu 
parle il, par — il pa — il — well, il then ! 

" Conjugations don't amount to anything. I know some phrases 
that are appropriate here and there, and in almost every locality ; and 
how's anybody going to know but what I have the conjugations all 
by heart ? 

"Have I got my geometery ? No, I'm just going to study it. 
Thirty-ninth, is it not ? 

"Let the triangle ABC, triangle A B — say, Ide, have you read 
about that Jersey elopement ? I think it is too utterly utter. 

" Oh ! theorem. 

" Let the triangle A B C be right-angled at B. On the side B C, 
erect, erect the square A I. On the side — did I tell you Sister Car- 
racciola gave me a new piece to-day, a sonata ? It is really intense. 
The tones fairly stir my soul. I am never going to take anything 
but sonatas after this. I got another new piece, too. Its name is 
Etudes. Isn't it funny ? I asked Tom this noon what it means, and 
he says it is Greek for nothing. It is quite apropos, for there is really 
nothing in it — the same thing over and over. 

" Where was I ? Oh ! yes ; side A C the square A E. Draw the 
line — come on, let's go at our astronomy. It's on, Are the planets 
inhabited ? Now, Ide, I think they are, and I have thought about it 
a great deal. I banged my hair last night. I wanted a Langtry 
bang just too bad for any use, but pa raved, and I had to give in. 
Yes, I think they are inhabited. I should like to visit some of them, 
but you would not catch me living in Venus. Eight seasons ! Just think 
how often we would have to have new outfits to keep up with the styles. 

" What ! you are not going ? I am so sorry, but I suppose you 
are tired. I am. It always makes me most sick to study a whole 
evening like this. I think sister ought to give us a picture." 

And they go to school next morning and tell the other girls how 
awfully hard they have studied. — Belle McDonald. 




'what are little girls GOOD FOR?" 

WE HEARD A MAN ASK TO-DAY; 
SO WE HAVE COME HERE TO TELL YOU, 
PLEASE LISTEN TO WHAT WE SAY. 

THE LITTLE HELFERS. 




JUST AT DUSK A HORSE OF BROWN, FLECKED WITH FOAM, CAME 
PANTING DOWN. 

THE RlDfc OF PAUL VENAREZ. 



PART VII. 
Readings for Juveniles. 



KRIS KRINGLE'S SURPRISE. 

WITH heavy pack upon his back, 
And smiles upon his face, 
Kris Kringle waded through the snow 
And went at rapid pace. 
His sack that made him sweat and tug 

Was stuffed with pretty toys, 
And up and down throughout the town 
He sought the girls and boys. 

Not long before, within one door, 

One little Johnny Street, 
By lucky chance got into pants, 

And grew about two feet. 
On Christmas eve he asked for leave 

To hang upon a peg 
The woolen stockings he had worn, 

Each with its lengthy leg. 

The cunning boy, on Christmas joy 

With all his heart was bent, 
And for old Kringle's packages 

With all his might he went. 
In big surprise Kris Kringle's eyes 

Stuck out and stared around, 
For two such stockings as those were 

He ne'er before had found. 

409 



410 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 

He thought he'd never get them full, 

They were so strangely deep ; 
So, standing there upon a chair, 

He took a hasty peep : 
Young Johnny Street, the little cheat, 

Had watched his lucky chance, 
And to the stockings, at the top, 

Had pinned his pair of oants. 

Henry Davenport. 



LITTLE DORA'S SOLILOQUY. 

ITAN'T see what our baby boy is dood for anyway ; 
He don't know how to walk or talk, he don't know how to play; 
He tears up ev'ry single zing he posser-bil-ly tan, 
An' even tried to break, one day, my mamma's bestest fan. 
He's al'ays tumblin' 'bout ze floor, an' gives us awful scares, 
An' when he goes to bed at night, he never says his prayers. 

On Sunday, too, he musses up my go-to-meetin' clothes, 

An' once I foun' him hard at work a-pinc'in' Dolly's nose; 

An' ze uzzer day zat naughty boy (now what you s'pose you zink ?) 

Upset a dreat big bottle of my papa's writin' ink ; 

An', 'stead of kyin' dood an' hard, as course he ought to done, 

He laughed, and kicked his head 'most off, as zo he zought 'twas fun. 



He even tries to reach up high, an' pull zings off ze shelf, 

An' he's al'ays wantin' you, of course, just when you want you'self. 

I rather dess, I really do, from how he pulls my turls, 

Zey all was made a-purpose for to 'noy us little dirls ; 

An' I wish zere wasn't no such zing as naughty baby boys — 

Why — why ; zat's him a-kyin' now ; he makes a drefful noise, 

I dess I better run and see, for if he has — boo-hoo ! 

Felled down ze stairs and killed his-self, whatever s-s-s'all I do ! 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 411 

" LITTLE JACK." 

HE wore a pair of tattered pants, 
A ragged roundabout, 
And through the torn crown of his hat 
A lock of hair stuck out ; 
He had no shoes upon his feet, 

No shirt upon his back ; 
His home was on the friendless street, 
His name was " Little Jack." 

One day a toddling baby -boy 

With head of curly hair 
Escaped his loving mother's eyes, 

Who, busy with her care, 
Forgot the little one, who crept 

Upon the railroad near 
To play with the bright pebbles there, 

Without a thought of fear. 

But see ! around a curve there comes 

A swiftly flying train — 
It rattles, roars! the whistle shrieks 

With all its might and main ; 
The mother sees her child, but stands 

Transfixed with sudden fright ! 
The baby clasps his little hands 

And laughs with low delight 

Look ! look ! a tattered figure flies 

Adown the railroad track ! 
His hat is gone ! his feet are bare ! 

'Tis ragged " Little Jack ! " 
He grasps the child and from the track 

The babe is safely tossed— 



412 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 

A slip ! a cry ! the train rolls by — 
Brave " Little Jack " is lost. 

They found his mangled body there 

Just where he slipped and fell — 
And strong men wept who never cared 

For him when he was well. 
If there be starry crowns in heaven 

For little ones to wear, 
The star in " Little Jack's " shall shine 

As bright as any there ! 

Eugene J. Hall. 



THE LITTLE ANGEL. 

RIGHT into our house one day, 
A dear little angel came ; 
I ran to him, and said softly, 
" Little angel, what is your name?" 

He said not a word in answer, 

But smiled a beautiful smile, 
Then I said : " May I go home with you ? 

Shall you go in a little while ? " 

But mamma said : " Dear little angel, 
Don't leave us ! O, always stay ! 

We will all of us love you dearly ! 
Sweet angel ! O, don't go away ! " 



So he stayed, and he stayed, and we loved him, 
As we could not have loved another; 

Do you want to know what his name is ? 
His name is — my little brother / 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 413 

A MERCANTILE TRANSACTION. 

TT POUND of jumps /" and I looked in surprise 
j\ At little black Rose with her shining eyes. 

"A pound of jumps ! — my mother said 
A pound of jumps," and she nodded her head. 

" But, my dear, we've flour, and sugar in lumps, 
And peanuts, but never a pound of jumps. 

With walnuts and chestnuts and corn that pops — " 
" O, O ! I forgot ! it's a pound of hops ! " 

Francis A. Humphrey. 



"PLANTING" WHEAT. 

SPECKLETY flew from the haymow dim 
Begging for something to eat ; 
Chanticleer crowed, but she walked past him 

Straight to Miss Toddlekins' feet. 
" Listen, Miss Dimple ! I've laid you an egg ! 
Give me some corn or some wheat, I beg ! 
There's plenty around. Don't you think I know ? 
And the egg in the haymow's white as snow." 

Toddlekins' apron was filled with wheat, 

The best of the winter's store, 
It was not to play with, and not to eat, 

But to plant and to grow into more. 
Speckiety saw it with covetous eyes ; 
Cackled aloud, " I have found a prize," 
Flew to the little maid's arm, and lo ! 
Scattered the wheat to the ground below. 



4U READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 

Toddlekins cried in a tone of awe, 
Watching the lost grains go — 
" Papa, she's planted the wheat in her craw ! 
Do you s'pose it'll sprout and grow?" 
Papa laughed out till the tears filled his eyes ; 
Toddlekins joined him, though lost in surprise ; 
Specklety cackled, " That wheat will grow ; 
It'll grow into eggs. Don't you think I know?" 

Mrs. May M. Anderson. 



U 



I 



THE BRAVE LITTLE MAID. 

'M not afraid of anything," 
Cried little Bessie Brown, 
Who thought herself the bravest lass 
In all Northampton town. 



" I know a girl who's scared at mice, 
While rats would make her shriek ; 
I'm not afraid of rats, not I, 
I love to hear them squeak. 

" And look at Cousin John ! it makes 
Me laugh to see him run 
When Uncle's turkey-cock appears ; 
It is the greatest fun ! 

" I'm not afraid of turkey-cocks, 
Although they gobble so. 
I'm not afraid of anything ; 

But, then, I'm brave, you know ! " 

One day this hearty little 'maid 

To see her granny went, 
A well-filled basket on her arm 

With gifts by mother sent. 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 415 

But what is this ? A noisy flock 

Of geese are hissing loud ; 
They threaten with their horny bills — 

A most unpleasant crowd. 

Then Bessie's heart began to quake, 
And puckered grew her brow. 
" Oh, Cousin John, dear Cousin John, 
Do come and help me now ! " 

" Why, Bessie ! " cries the laughing boy ; 
" And can it really be 
That you are frightened of a bird, 
Although you laughed at me?" 

Then Bessie sobbed, " Don't blame me, John ; 

It really is no use. 
I'm not afraid of anything, 

Except, perhaps, a goose ! " 



TAKE UP THE COLLECTION. 

[little Boy on a chair.] 

Ladies and Gentlemen : — 

I AM small, it is true, but great on the stump, 
And I think that the managers knew it ; 
For they have a different work to do, 
And I've been selected to do it. 

You may talk to the head and carry your point, 
May appeal to the heart and succeed ; 

But to speak to the pocket and make it respond 
Is a difficult work indeed. 

Some speak for applause, and only applause, 
And get what they work for (the scamps) ; 



416 READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 

While I care for neither the clapping or cheers, 
But I hope you'll come down with the stamps. 

We've a load on our back you can lighten, if 
You will add to the backs that bear it ; 

It's greenbacks we ask — you'll please give us one, 
If able and willing to spare it. 

We know that you will, for we've watched you to-night, 
While you listened to speech and to song ; 

And knew, by the good-natured look of your face, 
You were anxious to help us along. 

Good-night, I retire ; to this I feel sure 
That you've not the slightest objection ; 

So I will get down ; the Committee get up, 
And when up will take up the collection. 



BETTER WHISTLE THAN WHINE. 

AS I was taking a walk, I noticed two little boys on their way to 
school. The small one stumbled and fell, and, though he 
was not very much hurt, he began to whine in a babyish way — 
not a regular roaring boy cry, as though he were half killed, but a 
little cross whine. 

The older boy took his hand in a kind and fatherly way, and said : 
" O, never mind, Jimmy, don't whine ; it is a great deal better to 
whistle." And he began in the merriest way a cheerful boy whistle. 
Jimmy tried to join in the whistle. " I can't whistle as nice as you, 
Charlie," said he ; " my lips won't pucker up good." 

" O, that is because you have not got all the whine out yet," said 
Charlie; "but you try a minute and the whistle will drive the whine 
away." So he did, and the last I saw or heard of the little fellows 
they were whistling away as earnestly as though that was the chief 
end of life. 



A 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES, 417 

THE LITTLE SUNBEAM. 

LITTLE sunbeam in the sky 

Said to itself one day, 
"I'm very small, yet why should I 
Do nothing else but play ? 
I'll go down to the earth and see 
If there is any work for me." 

The violet beds were wet with dew, 

Which rilled each drooping cup; 
The little sunbeam darted through, 

And raised their blue heads up. 
They smiled to see it, and they lent 
The morning breeze their sweetest scent 



A mother safe beneath a tree 
Had left her babe asleep : 

It woke and cried, but when it spied 
The little sunbeam peep 

So slyly in, with glance so bright, 

It laughed and chuckled with delight. 

Away, away, o'er land and sea 
The merry sunbeam went : 

A ship was on the waters free 
From home and country sent ; 

But sparkling in that joyous ray, 

The blue waves danced around her way. 

A voyager gazed with weary eye, 

And heart of bitter pain; 
With the bright sunbeam from the sky 
Lost hope sprang up again. 
27 



418 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 

"The waves," he said, " are full of glee. 
Then yet there may be some for me." 

The sunbeam next did not disdain 

A window low and small ; 
It entered at the cottage pane, 

And danced upon the wall. 
A pale young face looked up to meet 
The radiance she had watched to greet. 

So up and down, and to and fro, 
The sunbeam glanced about ; 

And never door was shut, I know, 
To keep the stranger out. 

But lo ! where'er it touched the earth 

It seemed to wake up joy and mirth. 

I can not tell the history 

Of all that it could do ; 
But this I tell, that you may try 

To be a sunbeam too — 
By little smiles and deeds of love, 
Which cheer like sunshine from above. 



(C 



I 



" I WOULD IF I COULD." 

WOULD if I could," though much it's in use, 
Is but a mistaken and sluggish excuse; 
And many a person who could if he would, 
Is often heard saying, " I would if I could." 



" Come, John," said a school-boy, " now do not refuse- 
Come, solve me this problem ; you can if you choose." 
But John at that moment was not in the mood, 
And yawningly answered, " I would if I could." 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 419 

At the door of a mansion a child, thinly clad, 
While the cold wind blew fiercely, was begging for bread ; 
A rich man passed by her as trembling she stood, 
And answered her coldly, " I would if I could." 

The scholar receiving his teacher's advice, 
The swearer admonished to quit such a vice, 
The child when requested to try and be good, 
Oft give the same answer, "I would if I could." 

But if we may credit what good people say, 
That where there's a will, there is always a way ; 
And whatever ought to be, can be, and should — • 
We never need utter, " I would if I could." 



MEASURING THE BABY. 

"T "TE measured the riotous baby 
j/\/_ Against the cottage wall — 
A lily grew at the threshold, 
And the boy was just as tall- 
A royal tiger lily, 

With spots of purple and gold, 
And a heart like a jewelled chalice, 
The fragrant dew to hold. 

Without, the bluebirds whistled 

High up in the old roof trees, 
And to and fro at the window 

The red rose rocked her bees ; 
And the wee pink fists of the baby 

'Were never a moment still ! 
Snatching at shine and shadow 

That danced on the lattice-sill. 



420 




READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 

His eyes were wide as blue-bells — 

His mouth like a flower unblown — 
Two bare little feet, like funny white mice, 

Peeped out from his snowy gown ; 
And we thought, with a thrill of rapture 

That yet had a touch of pain, 
When June rolls around with her roses, 

We'll measure the boy again. 

Ah me ! In a darkened chamber, 

With the sunshine shut away, 
Through tears that fell like a bitter rain, 

We measured the boy to-day ; 
And the little bare feet that were dimpled 

And sweet as a bubbling rose, 
Lay side by side together, 

In the hush of a long repose ! 

Up from the dainty pillow, 

White as the risen dawn, 
The fair little face lay smiling, 

With the light of heaven thereon — 
And the dear little hands, like rose-leaves 

Dropped from a rose, lay still, 
Never to snatch at the sunshine 

That crept to the shrouded sill ! 

We measured the sleeping baby 

With ribbons as white as snow, 
For the shining rosewood casket 

That waited him below ; 
And out of the darkened chamber 

We went with a childish moan — 
To the height of the sinless angels 

Our little one had grown ! 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 421 

A THANKSGIVING DINNER. 

YOUNG Turkey Gobbler, with highly arched head, 
Looked at his mates gathered round: 
"To-morrow's Thanksgiving," he earnestly said, 
"And not one of us mast be found ; 
For I heard the farmer tell his wife 
That he would only kill three — 
And all the while he sharpened his knife 

He kept his eye on me. 
' Forewarned is forearmed ' — a saying old ; 

Come, let's hide ! " he said. 
But the next morning, stiff and cold, 
He hung by his legs in the shed. 

Miss Yellow Pumpkin, with tears in her eyes, 

Grew on a sunny slope. 
"To-morrow's Thanksgiving — they always have pies; 

But they won't find me, I hope ! 
To be made into pies — what a dreadful fate S " 

And she rolled from side to side. 
"Oh, there comes the farmer's daughter, Kate, 

And I must surely hide !" 
Then Miss Yellow Pumpkin rolled down hill, 

Bruising her dainty self, 
And she didn't come to her senses until 

There were twelve golden pies on the shelf. 

"I wonder what they are trying to do ? " 

Said the Apples in the bin. 
"If we're to be pared and cut in two, 

I think it's a shame and a sin ! 
And only think — to be wrapped in dough, 

And put over a kettle to steam ! 



422 READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 

And now comes the very worst of it, though — 
To be eaten — with sugar and cream ! " 

The Potatoes and Onions, the Turnips and Squash 

Got into a regular flutter, 
When the farmer's wife gave each a taste 

Of the very same kind of butter. 
How can I stand it," Sir Table said ; 

And he groaned as if in pain. 
"Oh, dear, I would be really glad 

If Thanksgiving ne'er came again. 
"Oh, me ! oh, me ! " and he groaned the more 

As the children took their places ; 
But smilingly his load he bore 

When he saw their happy faces. 

Lesbia Bryant. 






MR. NOBODY. 

I KNOW a funny little man, 
As quiet as a mouse, 
Who does the mischief that is done 
In everybody's house. 
There's no one ever sees his face, 

And yet we all agree, 
That every plate we break was cracked 
By Mr. Nobody. 

'Tis he who always tears our books,— 

Who leaves the door ajar ; 
He pulls the buttons from our shirts, 

And scatters pins afar. 
That squeaking door will always squeak, 

For, prithee, don't you see, 
We leave the oiling to be done 

By Mr. Nobody ? 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 423 

He puts damp wood upon the fire, 

That kettles cannot boil ; 
His are the feet that bring in mud, 

And all the carpets soil. 
The papers always are mislaid ; 

Who had them last, but he ? 
There's no one tosses them about 

But Mr. Nobody. 

The finger marks upon the doors 

By none of us are made ; 
We never leave the blinds unclosed, 

To let the curtains fade. 
The ink we never spill ; the boots 

That lying round you see, 
Are not our boots ! They all belong 

To Mr. Nobody ! 



IS IT YOU? 

THERE is a child — a boy or girl — 
I'm sorry it is true — 
Who doesn't mind when spoken to 
Is it ? — -it isn't you ! 
O no, it can't be you ! 

I know a child — a boy or girl — 

I'm loth to say I do — 
Who struck a little playmate child : 

Was it ? — it wasn't you ! 

I hope that wasn't you ! 

I know a child — a boy or girl — 
I hope that such are few — 



424 READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 

Who told a lie ; yes, told a lie ! 
Was it ? — it wasn't you ! 
It cannot be 'twas you ! 

There is a boy — I know a boy — 

I cannot love him though — 
Who robs the little birdies' nests ; 

Is it ? — it can't be you ! 

That bad boy can't be you ! 

A girl there is — a girl I know — 

And I could love her too, 
But that she is so proud and vain; 

Is it? — it can't be you ! 

That surely isn't you ! 

Mrs. Mary Goodwin. 



I 



LULU'S COMPLAINT. 

'SE a poor 'ittle sorrowful baby, 

For B'idget is 'way down stairs : 
My titten has scatched my fin'er, 
And Dolly won't say her p'ayers. 



I hain't seen my bootiful mamma 

Since ever so long ado ; 
An' I ain't her tunninest baby 

No londer, for B'idget says so. 

Mamma dot anoder new baby, 

Dod dived it — He did — yes'erday ; 

An' it kier, it kies — oh ! so defful ! 
I wis' He would take it away. 

I don't want no " sweet 'ittle sister ; " 
I want my dood mamma, I do ; 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 425 

I want her to tiss me and tiss me, 
An' tall me her p'ecious Lulu. 

I dess my dear papa will bin' me 

A 'ittle dood titten some day ; 
Here's nurse wid my mamma's new baby; 

I wis' she would tate it away. 

Oh ! oh ! what tunnin' red fin'ers ! 

It sees me 'ite out of its eyes ; 
I dess we will teep it and dive it 

Some can'y whenever it kies. 

I dess I will dive it my dolly 

To play wid mos' every day ; 
An' I dess, I dess — Say, B'idget, 

Ask Dod not to tate it away. 



LITTLE TOMMIES FIRST SMOKE. 

I'VE been sick. 
Mamma said 'mokin' was a nasty, dirty, disgraceful habit, and 

bad for the window curtains. 

Papa said it wasn't. He said all wise men 'moked, and that it was 
good for rheumatism, and that he didn't care for the window curtains, 
not a — that thing what busts and drowns people ; I forgot its name., 
And he said women didn't know much anyway, and that they couldn't 
reason like men. 

So next day papa wasn't nice a bit — that day I frew over the 
accawarium, and papa 'panked me — and I felt as if I had the rheuma- 
tism ever' time I went to sit down, and so I just got papa's pipe and 
loaded it and 'moked it, to cure rheumatism where papa 'panked me. 

And they put mustard plaster on my tummick till they most 
burned a hole in it, I guess. 



426 READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 

I fink they fought I was going to die. 

I fought so, too. 

Mamma said I was goin' to be a little cherub, but I fought I was 
goin' to be awful sick. Nurse said I was goin' to be a cherub, too — 
then she went to put a nuzzar mustard plaster on. I didn't want her 
to, and she called me somefing else. I guess that was 'cause I frew 
the mustard plaster in her face. I don't want to be a cherub anyway; 
I'd rather be little Tommie for a while yet. 

But I won't 'moke any more. 

I guess mamma was right. Maybe I'm sumfin' like a window cut 
tain. 'Mokin' isn't good for me. 



T 



THE ROBIN=REDBREASTS. 

WO robin redbreasts built their nests 

Within a hollow tree ; 
The hen sat quietly at home, 

Her mate sang merrily ; 
And all the little young ones said : 
" Wee, wee, wee, wee, wee, wee." 

One day (the sun was warm and bright, 

And shining in the sky) 
Cock-robin said : "My little dears, 

Tis time you learned to fly;" 
And all the little young ones said, 
"I'll try, I'll try, I'll try." 

I know a child — and who she is 

I'll tell you by and by — 
When mamma says "Do this," or "that," 

She says : " What for ? " and " Why ? " 
She'd be a better child by far 

If she would say : "I'll try." 

Aunt Effie's Rhymes. 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 427 

"THEY SAY." 

THE subject of my speech is one 
We hear of every day — 
'Tis simply all about the fear 
We have of what " they say J" 

How happy all of us could be, 

If, as we go our way, 
We did not stop to think and care 

So much for what " they say." 

We never dress to go outside, 

To church, to ball, or play, 
But every thing we wear or do 

Is ruled by what " they say." 

Half of the struggles we each make 

To keep up a display, 
Might be avoided, were it not 

For dread of what " they say!' 

The half of those who leave their homes 

For Long Branch and Cape May 
Would never go, if it were not 

For fear of what " they say." 

One reason why I'm now so scared 

(Pardon the weakness, pray !) 

Is that I'm thinking all the while, 

" Of me what will ' they say ?'" 

But so 'twill be, I judge, as long 

As on the earth folks stay — 
There'll always be, with wise and fools, 

That dread of what " they say." 



.428 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 



SUPPOSE ! 

SUPPOSE, my little lady, 
Your doll should break her head ; 
Could you make it whole by crying 
Till your eyes and nose are red ? 
And wouldn't it be pleasanter 

To treat it as a joke, 
And say you're glad " 'twas Dolly's, 
And not your head that broke ! " 

Suppose you're dressed for walking, 

And the rain comes pouring down, 
Will it clear off any sooner 

Because you scold and frown ? 
And wouldn't it be nicer 

For you to smile than pout, 
And so make sunshine in the house, 

When there is none without ? 

Suppose your task, my little man, 

Is very hard to get ; 
Will it make it any easier 

For you to sit and fret ? 
And wouldn't it be pleasanter 

Than waiting like a dunce, 
To go to work in earnest, 

And learn the thing at once ? 

Suppose that some boys have a horse, 
And some a coach and pair ; 

Will it tire you less while walking, 
To say " it isn't fair ? " 

And wouldn't it be nobler 
To keep your temper sweet, 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 429 

And in your heart be thankful 
You can walk upon your feet ? 

And suppose the world don't please you, 

Nor the way some people do, — 
Do you think the whole creation 

Will be altered just for you ? 
And isn't it, my boy or girl, 

The wisest, bravest plan, 
Whatever comes, or doesn't come, 

To do the best you can ? 

Phoebe Carey. 



THE SPECKLED HEN. 

DEAR Brother Ben I take my pen 
To tell you where, and how, and when, 
I found the nest of our speckled hen. 
She never would lay in a sensible way, 
Like other hens, in the barn on the hay; 
But here and there and everywhere, 
On the stable floor, and the wood-house stair, 
And once, on the ground her eggs I found. 

But yesterday I ran away, 

With mother's leave, in the barn to play. 

The sun shone bright on the seedy floor, 

And the doves so white were a pretty sight 

As they walked in and out of the open door, 

With their little red feet and feathers neat, 

Cooing and cooing more and more. 

Well, I went out to look about 

On the platform wide, where, side by side, 

I could see the pig-pens in their pride ; 



430 READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 

And beyond them both, on a narrow shelf, 
I saw the speckled hen hide herself 
Behind- a pile of hoes and rakes 
And pieces of boards and broken stakes. 

"Ah, ha! old hen, I have found you now, 
But to reach your nest I don't know how, 
Unless I could climb or creep or crawl 
Along the edge of the pig-pen wall." 
And while I stood in a thoughtful mood, 
The speckled hen cackled as loud as she could, 
And flew away, as much as to say, 

"For once my treasure is out of your way." 
I didn't wait a moment then ; 
I couldn't be conquered by that old hen ! 
But along the edge of the slippery ledge 
I carefully crept, for the great pigs slept, 
And I dared not even look to see 
If they were thinking of eating me. 

But all at once, oh ! what a dunce ! 
I dropped my basket into the pen, 
The one you gave me, Brother Ben ; 
There were two eggs in it, by the way, 
That I found in the manger under the hay, 
Then the pigs got up and ran about 
With a noise between a grunt and a shout, 
And when I saw them rooting, rooting, 
Of course I slipped and lost my footing, 
And tripped, and jumped, and finally fell 
Right down among the pigs, pell-mell. 

For once in my life I was afraid, 

For the door that led out into the shed 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 431 

Was fastened tight with an iron hook, 

And father was down in the fields by the brook, 

Hoeing and weeding his rows of corn, 

And here was his Dolly, so scared and forlorn. 

But I called him, and called him, as loud as I could, 

I knew he would hear me — he must and he should — 
" O father ! O father ! (Get out, you old pig.) 

O father ! oh ! oh ! " for their mouths were so big. 

Then I waited a minute and called him again, 
"O father ! O father ! I am in the pig-pen ! " 

And father did hear, and he threw down his hoe, 

And scampered as fast as a father could go. 

The pigs had pushed me close to the wall, 
And munched my basket, eggs and all, 
And chewed my sun-bonnet into a ball. 
And one had rubbed his muddy nose 

All over my apron, clean and white ; 
And they sniffed at me, and stepped on my toes, 

But hadn't taken the smallest bite, 
When father opened the door at last, 
And oh ! in his arms he held me fast. 

E. W. Denison. 

NO STOCKINGS TO WEAR. 

A LITTLE boy in our street, I will not tell his name, 
Goes barefoot, though a rich man's son — now isn't that a shame? 
He says he hasn't got a single stocking left to wear, 
And, yet, last week his mamma bought him half a dozen pair. 

And the silk ones grandma sent him for his best — that makes two 

more ; 
And there were five or six, at least, that he had long before, 
Then why does he go barefoot ? — you'll laugh, I know you will — 
He has hung up all his stockings for Santa Claus to fill. 






432 READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 

MISS LAUGH AND MISS FRET. 

CRIES little Miss Fret, 
In a very great pet : 
" I hate this warm weather; it's horrid ,to tan, 
It scorches my nose, 
And blisters my toes. 
And wherever I go, I must carry a fan." 

Chirps little Miss Laugh : 
" Why, I couldn't tell half 
The fun I am having this bright summer day. 

I sing through the hours, 

I cull pretty flowers, 
And ride like a queen on the sweet smelling hay." 



SANTA'S SECRET. 

) C"^ H — I've got out of bed, just a minute, 
y3 To tell you — I'll whisper it low — 
The stockings I've hung by the fire 
Are for me — not mamma, you know, 
For mine are so awfully little, 

Dear Santa Claus, don't you see? 
And I want, O! so many playthings, 
They won't hold enough for me. 

So I want you to surely remember 

And fill these as full as you can ; 
'Cause I haven't been very naughty, 

And — you're such a nice, kind man ! 
I'd like a live doll, if you please, sir, 

That can talk and call me " mamma," 
Not one that is full of old sawdust, 

As all my other dolls are. 







READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 433 

THAT'S BABY. 

NE little row of ten little toes, 

To go along with a brand-new nose, 
Eight new fingers and two new thumbs 



That are just as good as sugar plums — 

That's baby. 

One little pair of round new eyes, 
Like a little owl's, so big and wise, 
One little place they call a mouth, 
Without one tooth, from North to South — 

That's baby. 
Two little cheeks to kiss all day, 
Two little hands so in his way, 
A brand-new head, not very big, 
That seems to need a brand-new wig — 

That's baby. 

Dear little row of ten little toes ! 
How much we love them nobody knows ; 
Ten little kisses on mouth and chin, 
What a shame he wasn't a twin — 

That's baby. 



D 



JOHNNY'S POCKET. 

O you know what's in my pottet ? 

Such a lot o' treasures in it ! 

Listen, now, while I bedin' it ; 

Such a lot o' sings it hold, 

And all there is you sail be told, — 
Everysin' dat's in my pottet 
And when, and where, and how I dot it. 

First of all, here's in my pottet 
A beauty shell ; I picked it up • 
28 



434 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 

And here's the handle of a cup 
That somebody has broke at tea : 
The shell's a hole in it, you see ; 

Nobody knows that I have dot it, 

I keep it safe here in my pottet, 

And here's my ball, too, in my pottet, 
And here's my pennies, one, two, three, 
That aunt Mary gave to me ; 
To-morrow day I'll buy a spade 
When I'm out walking with the maid. 
I can't put dat here in my pottet, 
But I can use it when I've dot it. 

Here's some more sin's in my pottet ! 

Here's my lead, and here's my string, 

And once I had an iron ring. 

But through a hole it lost one day ; 

And here is what I always say — 
A hole's the worst sin' in a pottet — 
Have it mended when you've dot it. 



HOW HE DOES IT. 

HE comes right down the chimney 
When the Christmas bells are rung, 
When little folks are fast asleep, 
And stockings all are hung, 
All loaded down with pretty things, 
With guns and dolls and drums ; 
So be sure and hang your stockings 
Where he'll see 'em when he comes. 

You might hear him swiftly coming, 
Riding on the winter blast, 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 435 

His reindeer team a jingling 

And their hoof-beats falling fast. 
His furs are black with chimney soot, 

His beard is white with snow, 
His sleigh is full of pretty toys, 

You ought to hear him go ! 

He lights upon the sleety roof 

And doesn't stop a minute, 
He jumps upon the chimney top, 

And down he plumps within it, 
He pauses on the hearthstone, 

And he takes a little peep 
To see if all the curly heads 

Are safe in bed asleep. 

He goes about on tiptoe, 

Nor makes a bit of noise, 
He fills up all the stockings 

With sugar plums and toys ; 
And then he gives a little laugh, 

Pops up the chimney quick, 
And off he jingles on the wind, 

The jolly old Saint Nick. 



OUR CHRISTMAS. 

WE didn't have much of a Christmas, 
My papa and Rosie and me, 
For mamma 'd gone out to the prison 
To trim up the poor prisoners' tree ; 
And Ethel, my big grown-up sister, 
Was down at the 'sylum all day, 
To help at the great turkey dinner, 



436 • READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 

And teach games for the orphans to play. 
She belongs to a club of young ladies 

With a "beautiful object " they say, 
'Tis to go among poor lonesome children 

And make all their sad hearts more gay. 

And auntie — you don't know my auntie? 

(She's my own papa's half-sister Kate) 
She was 'bliged to be round at the chapel 

Till 'twas — oh, some time dreadfully late ! 
For she pities the poor worn-out curate, 

His burdens, she says, are so great ; 
So she 'ranges the flowers and the music, 

And he goes home around by our gate. 
I should think this way must be the longest, 

But then, I suppose, he knows best ; 
Aunt Kate says he intones most splendid 

And his name is Vane Algernon West. 

My papa had bought a big turkey, 

And had it sent home Christmas Eve ; 
But there wasn't a soul here to cook it ; 

You see Bridget had threatened to leave 
If she couldn't go off with her cousin — 

(He doesn't look like her one bit) ; 
She says she belongs to a " union," 

And the union won't let her " submit." 
So we ate bread and milk for our dinner, 

And some raisins and candy, and then 
Rose and me went down stairs to the pantry 

To look at the turkev again. 

Papa said he would take us out riding ; 

Then he thought that he didn't quite dare, 
For Rose 'd got cold and kept coughing, 

There was dampness and chills in the air, 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 437 

Oh, the day was so long and so lonesome ! 

And our papa was lonesome as we ; 
And the parlor was dreary — no sunshine, 

And all the sweet roses — the tea 
And the red ones — and ferns and carnations, 

That have made our bay window so bright, 
Mamma 'd picked for the men at the prison 

To make their bad hearts pure and white. 

And we all sat up close to the window, 

Rose and me on our papa's two knees, 
And we counted the dear little birdies 

That were hopping about on the trees. 
Rosie wanted to be a brown sparrow, 

But I thought I would rather, by far, 
Be a robin that flies away winters 

Where the sunshine and gay blossoms are. 
And papa wished he was a jail bird, 

'Cause he thought that they fared the best ; 
But we all were real glad we weren't turkeys, 

For then we'd been killed with the rest. 

That night I put into my prayers — 

" Dear God, we've been lonesome to-day 
For mamma, aunt, Ethel and Bridget, 

Every one of them all went away — 
Won't you please make a club, or society, 

'Fore it's time for next Christmas to be, 
To take care of philanterpists' families — 

Like papa and Rosie and me ? " 
And I think that my papa's grown pious, 

For he listened as still as a mouse, 
'Till I got to " Amen ;" then he said it 

So it sounded all over the house. 

Julia Anna Wolcott. 



438 READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 

WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN. 

ARCHIBALD Edward Theophilus Jones 
Had a way of expressing his feelings in moans, 
In sobs and sighs, 
And dolorous cries ; 

The water continually ran from his eyes. 
Upon every occasion he "started the bawl" 
At the silliest trifle, or nothing at all, 
Till his mother declared: "Why, Theophilus, dear, 
If you are not more careful, you wont leave a tear ! 

"And some day, you know, 

It might happen so, 

Your feelings, or head, might receive a hard blow ; 

A blow that would really be worthy a tear, 

And by being so lavish at present, I fear 

You'll have not a tear left, 

And being bereft 

Of the tears that are needful to make a good cry, 

With no means, of relieving your feelings you'll die ! " 

But Theophilus paid to this counsel no heed. 

He continued to roar 

And cry as before. 

The family wished themselves deaf, — yes, indeed ; 

Although certainly some 

Of them wished lie was dumb, 

For surely among things excessively trying 

May be reckoned the child that forever is crying. 

Well — the worst of the story remains to be told. 
He was weeping one morning — because it was cold — 
When he felt a strange quiver, 
A shake and a shiver ; 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 439 

It began at the point where his eyes met his nose, 
And ran through his backbone quite down to his toes. 
Astonished, he stopped for an instant his wail, 
And when to renew it he tried — ah, sad tale ! 
Alas, how can I tell 
Of the fate that befell ? 

This poor little boy found he'd cried himself dry. 

Not a tear could he squeeze from his dear little eye; 

Though he struggled his hardest, 'twas useless to try. 

Vain — all vain ! 

And an unsatisfactory cry 

Is the one where you haven't a tear in your eye ! 

Boys, be warned by his fate, 
Before 'tis too late. 
Don't cry for small matters, 
Slight bruises and batters; 
Or, indeed, who can say, 
It might happen some day, 

When some weighty occasion for crying should rise, 
You'd be left like young Jones, with no tears in your eyes ! 

Eva Lovett Carson. 



OUR DOQ. 

[Written expressly for this volume.] 

HAVE you a dog — a frisky dog, 
A dog that runs and plays, 
With laughter in his roguish eyes, 
And lively, cunning ways ? 
Cross dogs have never any friends, 
They snap and growl and fight, 
They frighten people all the day, 
And then bark all the night. 



440 READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 

Our Rover wouldn't do such things, 

For that is not his way, 
He's good and kind, no matter what 

The pesky neighbors say. 
He jumps at children in the street, 

And makes them run and cry, 
But this he wouldn't do, you know, 

If they weren't going by. 

He sprang at Mr. Jones one day, 

And bit him in the calf, 
But didn't take it all away, 

No, not so much as half. 
Now Rover — this we all declared — 

Just meant it for a bluff, 
And Jones got bitten, all because 

He wasn't spry enough. 

But we are not to blame for that, 

And I would like to say 
'Tis not our fault if people can't 

Get out of Rover's way. 
The neighbors needn't make a fuss, 

And fling at us their slurs; 
I'm bound to tell them that their dogs 

Are horrid, low-bred curs. 

Next door to us there is a yard 

With chickens all about; 
Our dog jumped in and killed a few, 

And put the rest to rout ; 
The neighbor said that Rover was 

A vulgar, vicious pup — 
But if he wants to keep his chicks, 

Why don't he shut them up? 




CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 

GIVING A READING. 







MARIE BURROUGHS. 



PRAY YOU, LET'S HAVE NO WORDS OF THIS! 

OPHELIA. 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES: 441 

Our Rover tore Miss Prim's silk dress, 

And, she says, threw her down; 
Weil, why did she go sailing round 

In that bran-new silk gown? 
She might have walked down past our house 

In a much cheaper dress; 
Some people act like simpletons, 

I really must confess. 

Why, Rover — so we have been told — 

Has got a pedigree; 
I don't know what that is, but guess 

It's what you seldom see; 
Now, what a slander 'tis to say 

Our dog will snarl and bite — 
A dog that has a pedigree, 

Would surely be polite. 

And then, our Rover is so cute — 

He never hears a word; 
When told to stop his boisterous noise, 

He thinks 'twould be absurd. 
So I would have you understand — ■ 

And you may put it down — 
We've got the beau-ti-ful-est dog 

That you can find in town. 

Henry Davenport. 

I WISH I WAS A GROWN=UP. 

OH, I wish I was a grown-up, 
And nobody could say, 
"No, no, you can't do so-and-so," 
Or, " If you're good, you may." 

If grown-ups waited to be good 
Before they had their fun, 



442 READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 

A great deal that is going on, 
I guess, would not be done. 

Oh, I wish I was a grown-up, 

Then I'd play with bigger boys, 
And spend a hundred dollars 

For nothing else but toys. 
I'd give the fellows all a boat, 

A knife and kite and ball ; 
I'd sit up late, and sometimes 

Wouldn't go to bed at all. 

Oh, I wish I was a grown-up, 

I'd wear my very best, 
With long gold chain a-dangling 

Across my stiff white vest ; 
With big top-boots so heavy 

I could wade out anywhere ; 
With a gold watch in my pocket, 

And a close shave on my hair. 

Oh, I wish I was a grown-up, 

As tall as my papa, 
I'd have a pistol and a cane, 

And marry Maggie Carr. 
I'd have a party every night — 

How jolly it would seem ! 
I'd have a house of citron cake, 

And a lawn of lemon cream. 

Oh, I wish I was a grown-up, 
I'd have a stunning yacht ; 

And eat at the first table 

While the beefsteak was hot ; 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. '443 

I'd go right in the parlor, 

No matter who was there ; 
I'd have a span of horses, 

And keep a dancing bear ! 

But, then, I ain't a grown-up, 

I'm a boy that has to mind, 
With a little blue-checked apron, 

And my trousers thin behind ; 
And the women come and kiss me, 

And call me " little dear ;" 
And I shan't be a grown-up 

In many a long year. 

Mrs. M. F. Butts. 



"J 



GOING AFTER THE COWS. 

ENNIE ! " mother cries, "Jen-;«V/ 

Why, where in the world can Jennie be ? 
She went for the cows an hour ago. 
What ails the girl that she lingers so?" 



The sun goes down in the crimson west, 
The tired day prepares for rest, 
And the laggard moments slowly pass, 
But bring no news of the truant lass. 

"What ails the girl?" The sober cows, 
Stopping along the fields to browse, 
May look in vain from side to side, 
And wait the voice of their pretty guide. 

For far behind, by the pasture gate, 
Jennie — and Jamie — forget 'tis late, 
Forget the cows, and the milking hour, 
And everything else, save love's sweet power. 



444 " READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 

The lengthening shadows unheeded fall, 
The whip-poor-will with his plaintive call, 
The gathering dews, and the darkening sky — 
All warn in vain as the minutes fly. 

Twice and thrice does mother go 
To the farmhouse door, ere she hears the low 
Of the cows, as they trample up the lane, 
And the ring of the cow-bells, clear and plain. 

But presently come the laggard feet 
Of Jennie and Jamie. Oh ! shyly sweet 
Are the girl's blue eyes as she stands before 
The mother, who meets her at the door. 

" What kept you so, my child ? " "I ? — Oh ! 
I was going after the cows, you know." 
Then whispered Jamie, "Whatever you do, 
Don't tell her that I — went after you!" 



THE ROAD TO YESTERDAY. 

WILL some wise man who has journeyed 
Over land and over sea 
To the countries where the rainbow 
And the glorious sunsets be, 
Kindly tell a little stranger 

Who has oddly lost her way, 
Where's the road that she must travel 
To return to Yesterday ? 

For, you see, she's unfamiliar 

With To-day, and cannot read 
What its strange, mysterious sign-posts 

Tell of ways and where they lead, 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 445 

And her heart upbraids her sorely, 

Though she did not mean to stay 
When she fell asleep last evening 

And abandoned Yesterday. 

For she left a deal neglected 

That she really should have done; 
And she fears she's lost some favors 

That she fairly might have won. 
So she'd liked to turn her backward 

To retrieve them if she may — 
Will not some one kindly tell her 

Where's the road to Yesterday? 



CHARLEY'S OPINION OF THE BABY. 

MUZZER'S bought a baby 
Ittle bit's of zing ; 
Zink I mos. could put him 
Froo my rubber ring. 

Ain't he awful ugly ? 

Ain't he awful pink ? 
Just come down from heaven, 

Dat's a fib, I zink. 

Doctor tole anozzer 

Great big awful lie ; 
Nose ain't out of joyent, 

Dat ain't why I cry. 

Zink I ought to love him ! 

No, I won't ! so zere ; 
Nassy, crying baby, 

Ain't got any hair. 



446 READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 

Send me off wiz biddy 
Ev'ry single day ; 
" Be a good boy, Charlie, 
Run away and play." 

Dot all my nice kisses, 
Dot my place in bed ; 

Mean to take my drumstick 
And beat him on ze head. 



THE TRUE STORY OF LITTLE BOY BLUE. 

LITTLE Boy Blue, as the story goes, 
One morning in summer fell fast asleep, 
When he should have been, as every one knows, 
Watching the cows and sheep. 

Now all of you will remember what 

Came of the nap on that summer morn; 

How the sheep got into the meadow-lot, 
And the cows got into the corn. 

Neglecting a duty is wrong, of course, 

But I've always felt, if we could but know, 

That the matter was made a great deal worse 
Than it should have been; and so 

I find, in my sifting, that there was one 
Still more to blame than Little Boy Blue. 

I am anxious to have full justice done, 
And so, I know, are you. 

The one to blame I have found to be 
(I'm sorry to say it) little Bo-Peep; 



READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 447 

You will remember, perhaps, that she 
Also was minding sheep. 

Well, little Bo-Peep came tripping along — 

(The sheep she tended were running at large) — 

Where little Boy Blue sat singing a song, 
And faithfully watching his charge. 

Said little Bo-Peep, " It's a burning shame 
That you should sit here from week to week. 

Just leave your work, and we'll play a game 
Of — well — of hide and seek." 

It was dull work, and he liked to play 

Better, I'm sure, than to eat or sleep; 
He liked the bloom of the summer day; — 

And he liked — he liked Bo-Peep. 

And so, with many a laugh and shout, 

They hid from each other — now here — now there ; 

And whether the cows were in or out, 
Bo-Peep had never a care. 

" I will hide once more," said the maiden fair, 

" You shall not find me this time, I say — 
Shut your eyes up tight, and lie down there 

Under that stack of hay. 

"Now wait till I call," said Miss Bo-Peep, 

And over the meadows she slipped away, 
With never a thought for cows or sheep — 

Alas! Alas! the da)-. 

She let down the bars, did Miss Bo-Peep — 

Such trifles as bars she held in scorn — 
And into the meadows went the sheep 

And the cows went into the corn. 



448 READINGS FOR JUVENILES. 

Then long and patiently waited he 

For the blithesome call from her rosy lips; 

He waited in vain — quite like, you see, 
The boy on the burning ship. 

And by and by, when they found Boy Blue 
In the merest doze, lie took the blame. 

I think it was fine in him — don't you — 
Not to mention Bo-Peep's name ? 

And thus it has happened that all these years 
He has borne the blame she ought to share. 

Since I know the truth of it, it appears 
To me to be only fair 

To tell the story from shore to shore, 
From sea to sea, and from sun to sun, 

Because, as I think I have said before, 
I like to see justice done. 

So, whatever you've read or seen or heard, 
Believe me, good people, I tell the true 

And only genuine — -take my word — 
Story of little Boy Blue. 



A 



RUNNING A RACE. 

LITTLE tear and a little smile set out to run a race ; 

We watched them closely all the while; their course was 
baby's face. 



The little tear he got the start ; we really feared he'd win ; 
He ran so fast and made a dart straight for the dimpled chin. 

But somehow — it was very queer ; we watched them all the while- 
The little shining, fretful tear, got beaten by the smile. 



PART VIII. 
Dialogues, Colloquies and Tableaux. 



THE MODEL LESSON. 

[Written expressly for this Volume.] 

r Miss Brent 
Tzv o older girls to act as teachers I and 

I Miss Blank. 
Jonas — a dull and somezvhat deaf boy, who is inclinea to be very critical 

and knoiv " zvhat's what " for himself. 
Marcus — a bright and very officious lad. 
Ezra — a little fat boy, zvho is too lazy to want to think. 
Johnnie Simpkins — a very mischievous boy. 
James — generally a sedate and earnest pupil. 
Mary ^ 

Jane V quiet girls, attentive to their work. 
Sally J 
Bessie — an extremely placid child, who has abounding good nature but 

not quick mental grasp, and zvho sits dreamily through the lesson, 

catching only now and then a point. 

Scene. — A district school near the frontier, where they have their first 
Normal School trained, teacher. The children, encouraged to talk for 
themselves, are delighted, with this change from the old method of just 
reciting from memory the zvords of the book, and improve their oppor- 
tunities to the utmost. 

Besides the benches for the pupils there are a bench with a pail of 
zvater on it, the teacher s table, and on it two or three poor apples, an 
orange, a light ruler, easily broken, some chalk and crayons. 

29 449 









450 DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 

The children all turn expectant faces to the teacher, for their nezu 
teacher and her new ways are a great curiosity to them. Children 
invariably all raise their hands at every question. 

Teacher (holding up a somewhat knotty apple). — What have I in 
my hand ? Jonas, you may tell me. 

Jonas {peering carefully at the apple). — A little runt of an apple, I 
should say. 

Teacher. — Jonas, you will please tell me just the object in my 
hand, and nothing else. 

Jonas {after another careful scrutiny of the apple). — Well, ma'am, I 
should say, a spitzbergen — a mighty poor one, though. 

Marcus {waving his hand). — No, ma'am. That's the very apple 
you took from me day before yesterday, and it's a none-such, and it's 
as good an apple as Jonas's dad had on his farm this year. 

Teacher (sternly). — Boys, I desire none of these personal remarks. 
You will please attend strictly to the subject of the lesson and my 
question. (Repeats.) What have I in my hand? 

Jonas (success beaming in his face). — Please, teacher, I can tell 
exactly now. 

Teacher. — You may tell. 

Jonas. — A rotten apple — it must be if it's been lying around here so 
long. 

Teacher (with offended dignity). — Is there no pupil in this class 
bright enough to tell me exactly the common name of the object in 
my hand ? (Several hands raised.) Mary, you may tell. 

Mary. — A apple. 

Teacher (correcting the article proceeds to cut the apple into four 
equal parts). — What have I now done? (Children raise hands enthu- 
siastically^) Jane, you may tell. 

Jane (triumphantly). Quartered it ! 

Ezra. — Humph ! anybody can see that. 

Teacher (glaring at Ezra). — Ezra, you will please not speak unless 
called upon. Jane, please make your statement more simply. 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 451 

Jane. — Please, Miss Brent, ma is always saying I couldn't look 
any more simple if I tried — that I don't look half what I know. 

Teacher. — Jane, please attend strictly to the subject of the lesson. 
Tell me what you mean by quartering. 

Jane. — You cut the apple into four pieces. 

Teacher. — Please give me another term for pieces. 

Jane. — Chunks ! 

Teacher. — No. Who can give me a better word ? 

Sally. — Parts. 

Teacher. — That is right. Now, children, look carefully and be 
ready to tell me how these parts compare in size. 

Ezra (who is inclined to be greedy). — They are awful stingy pieces, 
teacher — just bites ! 

Teacher. — Ezra, if you indulge in anymore such remarks you will 
have to stay after school for your lesson. {Ezra sinks back sullenly?) 
Sally, you may tell me. 

Sally {cautiously). — They're about the same size. 

Teacher {somewhat discouraged"). — Take the parts in your hand 
and observe how evenly I have cut them. {The pieces are passed 
around and examined very critically by the children?) 

Jonas {raises hand). — Barring the knots and the poor places, I 
reckon you meant to have them all alike. 

Teacher. — Yes, you can see that were the apple perfect, the parts 
would be all alike. (Hastily cuts a very symmetrical orange so as to 
remove this new objection from her hypercritical pupils?) What can you 
say of these parts? {The teacher here suddenly notices a boy with 
a suspicious looking protuberance in his cheek?) Johnny Simpkins, what 
is the matter with your cheek? 

Johnny {in muffled tones). — Nothing, ma'am. 

Teacher. — Johnny Simpkins, you are eating in school. 

Johnny {in still more muffled tone). — No'm. 

Teacher {with sarcastic sympathy?). — Ah ! I see. You have had 
the tooth-ache. I will send for a remedy at once. You must be in 
great pain. 






452 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 






Johnny {showing considerable alarm, mumbles a protest). — No'm. 
Oh, no'm. 

Teacher {motions one of the boys to come to her to act as messenger). 

Johnny {fairly cornered, and in great dread of medicine, springs to 
his feet and in very labored tones confesses). — Please, ma'am, it's only a 
candy bull's-eye that I just happened to have in my mouth. 

Teacher. — Very well, Johnny, you may remain after school and 
explain how it liappcncd. Now you may remove the candy. {All the 
other children look on with great interest and delight while Johnny takes 
out the big lump of candy and deposits it in his handkerchief i) 

Teacher {sharply). — Attention, children ! What can you say as to 
the size of these parts ? 

Children {shout in chorus). — They are the same size. 

Teacher. — Who can tell that in another way? James. 

James. — They are all alike. 

Teacher. — Now who can give me that meaning in one word? 
{Children look thoughtful and ponder the question in vain) 

Ezra {raising hand lazily, drazvls out). — Why not just put " same 
size " together and call it one word ? 

Teacher. — No, that will not do. There is one word which will tell 
me exactly that two objects are of the same size. 

{More intense thought by children ; great screwing of faces and wrink- 
ling of brozvs^) 

Johnny Simpkins {having revived his courage, is gesticidating zvildly 
and crying out). — I know, teacher ; I know ! 

Teacher. — Well, Johnny, you may tell. 

Johnny {shouts). — Twins ! {All the children nod their heads, and ex- 
claim). — Oh, yes ; that's it! 

Teacher (looki7ig blank and struggling with laughter). — No, that is 
not the proper term to be used in this case. I shall have to tell you. 
They are equal parts. Now, you may tell me. 

Children (in chorus). — Equal parts. 

Teacher {breaking a rider into three equal ■barts, takes up two of the 
parts). — What have I here ? 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 453 

Mary. — Two parts of a ruler. 

Teacher. — What can you say of the size of these parts ? James, 
you may tell me. 

James {who has been furtively tempted into trading knives by Johnny 
Simpkins and has lost track a little). — They are of the same length. 

Teacher {reprovingly). — You are very much behind, James. Who 
can tell ? 

Bessie {eagerly raising hand). — Please, Miss Brent, I can tell. 
They are twin parts of the same length. 

Teacher {glares at poor Bessie). — Bessie Sanders, you have not been 
listening. {Bessie sinks back greatly dismayed, and anxiously tries to 
grasp the lesson for a time.) 

Teacher. — Marcus, you may tell. 

Marcus. — Equal parts. 

Teacher {breaks crayon into two parts). — What have I, James ? 

James. — Two parts. 

Teacher. — What kind of parts, Ezra? 

Ezra {carelessly). — Equal parts. 

Sally. — No, teacher, the ends aren't alike ! 

Teacher. — That is so, in this case, Sally. We will take the pieces 
of the ruler. What can you say of them ? 

Sally. — They are equal parts. 

Teacher. — How many parts of the apple did I first take, Jonas ? 

Jonas. — I disremember. 

Teacher {correcting the incorrect word, takes tip a piece). — How 
many have I taken now ? 

Jonas. — One part. 

Teacher. — What kind of part ? 

Jonas. — One equal part. 

Teacher. — Now how many have I, Marcus? 

Marcus. — Three equal parts. 

Teacher. — What can you say of three as compared with one, Ezra? 

Jonas {excitedly). — Teacher, you haven't pared a single part; the 
peeling is all on ! 



454 DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 

Teacher. — I did not say " pared." {Repeats question zvith extreme 
distinctness}) Ezra ? [Ezra sinks into his seat, unable to anszver.) 

Teacher. — Ezra, which would you rather have, one part or three 
parts of the apple ? 

Ezra. — I wouldn't be particular, thank you, ma'am, with such a 
poor apple. 

Teacher {patiently trying another tack). — Which would you rather 
have, one part or three parts of the orange ? 

Ezra. — Three parts. 

Teacher. — Why ? 

Ezra. — Three parts are more than one part. 

Teacher. — Then what can you say of three as compared with one, 
Mary ? 

Mary. — Three are more than one. 

Teacher. — What can you say of any number above one as com- 
pared with one, Mary ? 

Mary. — Any such number is more than one. 

Teacher. — Then, in speaking of the parts of anything, instead oi 
saying every time just how many parts, what may we say, Johnny 
Simpkins ? 

Johnny. — Oh, lots of 'em ! 

Teacher. — But what is the smallest number of parts we can have? 

Johnny. — Well, we can have no part at all. 

Mary (very primly). — Then we wouldn't have it. 

Teacher. — That is correct, Mary. You may answer my question. 

Mary. — We could have one or more parts. 

Teacher. — What kind of parts have we been taking, Jonas ? 

Jonas (who seems suddenly much abashed). — Oh, you can't get me 
to tell that, teacher. 

Teacher (sternly). — Jonas, why do you give me such a reply? 

Jonas {much discomfited). — Well, I don't want to talk about babies. 

Teacher {amazed). — Jonas, of what are you thinking? 

Jonas {sullenly). — Why, they were all telling about "twins" awhile 
ago. 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 455 

{Class all laugh and sufficiently arouse Bessie to catch this zuord.) 

Teacher. — Mary, you may give Jonas the term applied to parts 
exactly alike. 

Mary. — Equal parts. 

Teacher. — Now, how many parts of anything may be taken, 
Marcus ? 

Marcus. — I know what you're after, teacher, but you can't get it 
asking that way. 

Teacher (sternly). — Reply to my question. 

Marcus (jubilantly). — Well, it depends on how many you can get 
hold of. 

Teacher (very emphatically). — Marcus, I mean exactly this : how 
many parts of anything is it possible to consider ? 

Marcus. — One or more parts. 

Teacher. — Now, children, what do we call one or more of the 
equal parts of anything? 

Jonas. — Do you mean in arithmetic, teacher? 

Teacher (beginning to look discouraged). — Yes, in arithmetic or 
out of it. 

Jonas. — Well, if it is out of the arithmetic, I reckon I'm mixed up. 

Teacher. — Who can tell ? Sally, can you ? 

Sally. — A fraction. 

Teacher. — Now, Jonas, you may tell me what a fraction is. 

Jonas (good-naturedly). — Oh, a fraction has one number written 
above a little straight line — or you could slant that 'ere line if you 
wanted to, teacher — and another number under it. I knew that all 
the time, teacher. I could have told you that before. 

Teacher (beginning to look desperate). — Jane ? 

Jane. — The parts of anything are a fraction of it. 

Teacher. — That is not the whole definition, however. Sum up in 
your definition all the points I have discussed with you. (Marcus, 
Mary, Sally, James promptly raise hands.) No, I am sure you know. 
I want those who have not paid such close attention to answer. 
Johnny Simpkins ? 



456 DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 

Johnny. — Some parts that are near alike as two twins — only you 
don't call 'em twins — I can't remember that word, teacher — are called 
a fraction ; that is, if you can manage to have 'em, but we didn't get 
any of the apple or the orange, either. 

Teacher {leaning back against the black-board utterly discouraged 
and disgusted, says very reproachfully and severely). — Such carelessness 
is inexcusable. I am ashamed of you. 

Bessie {looking distressed). — Please, Miss Brent, I have paid atten- 
tion and tried to listen to all the new words, and I can tell. 

Teacher. — Well, Bessie, you shall redeem the honor of your class. 

Bessie (beaming at the lionor thus put upon her). — One or more 
twins exactly of the same size — if there weren't any knots or poor 
places in them- — cut into equal parts and both ends alike, are called a 
fraction of the very first apple. 

(Children simidtancousiy exclaim) — Oh, my ! Ge whittaker ! Good- 
ness gracious. 

[Teacher collapses and faints away. Grand rush of children for the 
water-pail. Jonas cries to get " burnt feathers." In the melee t just as 
Johnny Simpkins is about to pour the contents of the pail over the teacher, 
the teacher from the other room enters to see what is the matter.] 

Miss Blank. — Children, take your seats. (Helps her now reviving 
companion to the door.) Children, you may go home at once. 

[Exit Miss Blank. ] 

[Children qideted by the accident, pass out.~\ 

Jonas (remarks to Marcus, as they pass out). — I couldn't get the 
hang of that "quill." (He has taken "a quill" for equal.) What 
does a qiull have to do with a fraction ? Did she mean a goose-quill? 
I'll just ask Miss Brent to-morrow. I've got everything pretty straight 
but that. 

Marcus (looking a good deal puzzled). — I can't get them "twins" 
straightened out. Didn't she have four pieces of that rotten apple? 
Well, it takes only two pieces to make a pair of "twins;" so there 
were four " twins," and that's a good many to have, all at once. 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 457 

A CONCENSUS OF THE COMPETENT. 

[Scene; : A morning room. Time; : The end of a delightful season.] 
Kate ^ r best -\ 

-< dearest > 
Gladys 



Ethel Girls, I'm engaged to the -< dearest V man ! 

v. divinest J 



Ethel. — You remember, girls, we promised to tell each other 
everything-r-even this. Kate, dear, you begin. Tell every single 
thing, mind ! » 

Kate {beginning bravely). — There isn't much to tell, after all. He 
goes in awfully for athletics, too. We had been playing tennis 
together for a whole week, and I had just won a hard game. He 
came right up, all red and hot, with his blazer half off one shoulder, 
and just said, brusquely : "Miss Kate, let's play together through 
life! Is it a go?" Three days afterward he was called West by 
a telegram, but he writes me every Sunday- — jolly, bluff, hearty letters, 
like himself. Oh, girls, he is just the nicest fellow ! 

Gladys. — Now, Ethel, it's your turn. 

Ethel (blushing very much). — I met him at one of our Swinburne 
evenings. He is frightfully reserved and cynical, and doesn't believe 
in anything hardly — especially women; but "some way ; " he said, " I 
was different." I had known him only three days ; we were strolling 
down the sand at sunset, and he was looking very bored and handsome. 
I sat down on a rock, and he walked away to the sea. Then suddenly 
he came up to me, with the saddest look, and told me that since he 
had seen me life had taken on a sombre brightness that he had never 
expected to know again ; that my fresh enthusiasms and beliefs were 
like flowers, and he begged me to consent to " lift the heavy shadow 
from a darkened heart." He left the next day, very reluctantly, but 
he writes me twice every week — such sadly-sweet despairing things ! 
Oh, girls, he is the dearest fellow ! 

Kate. — Now, Gladys. 

Gladys {with solemnity). — He is just perfectly romantic ! We had 
only been introduced early that evening, but he asked me to go out 



458 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 



on the lake. All at once he dropped the oars — they were fastened in 
— sprang over the seats, fell on his knees beside me and whispered : 
" My darling, my ideal, be mine forever ! Think, think, dearest, what 
is life without love ! I have known you but three short hours, yet 
I feel that our souls have been acquainted since eternity." He left by 
the early stage in the morning, but he writes me twice a day — notes of 
the most passionate ecstasy. Oh, girls, he is the most adorable fellow ! 
Ethel. — We promised to tell names, too. I amproudto tell mine ! 
Kate. — Of course. 
Gladys. — So am I. 
Kate ^ r Harry -\ 

His name is < Henry F. V Carter ! 
I H. Frisbee J 
r the fraud ! 
Oh-h-h, 1 the wicked wretch ! 

I the ineffable monster ! 

Dorothea Lummis. 




FOX AND GEESE. 

r Mother Goose, 
Characters < Two Young Geese, 

I Fox. 
Background. — Brown muslin curtain. 
Costume. — Full white muslin cloaks with hoods. 
Mother Goose in . the chair. 



Yellow stockings. 



Mother Goose. 

Come, children dear, and listen to me, 

I'm feeble and old, as you can see, 

And soon away from this world of woe, 

Your poor, old mother must go, go, go ! {Shakes her head) 

Now, when I am gone, you must not fret, 

Nor my good advice must you e'er forget. 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 459 

Young geese are silly, and the fox is sly, {Enter Fox unseen.) 

Remember that when you pass him by. {Shakes her fingers') 

And, children dear, whatever you do, 

Never listen to him when he speaks to you ! 

And stay you at home when the hour is late, 

Or sad, sad indeed, will be your fate. 

Young geese are silly, and the fox is sly, 

Remember that when I die, die, die ! ( Young Geese kneel beside her) 

First Young Goose. 

Oh, mother dear, we will e'er be true, 
When the fox is near we will think of you. 

Second Young Goose. 

And though we may believe he is nice, 
We'll be sure to remember your good advice ; 
And chance we to meet him, whenever the day, 
We'll turn our, faces the other way. 

Both Young Geese (in chorus). 

And when night comes we will never roam, 
But think of the sly fox, and stay at home. 

(Rise hand in hand and repeat) 

Mother Goose. 

Young geese are silly, and the fox is sly, 
Remember that when I die, die, die ! (Exit) 

Scene II. 

First Young Goose. 

Come, take a walk, come, sister dear, 
See ! overhead the moon shines clear ; 
And, if our way the fox should pass, 
We'll hide us down in some thick grass ; 

( 



460 DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 

And, when he's gone, we'll hasten home — 
Don't be a coward, sister, come ! 

Second Young Goose. 
Oh, sister dear, I should love to go ; 
But he, the old fox, is sly, you know. 

First Young Goose. 
What if he is ! we are not afraid ; 
We'll show him that we geese are made 
Of something more than feathers. Come ! 
We'll go not very far from home. 

{They walk back and forth, hand in hand — meet Fox face to face. Fox 

in brown fnr cloak and hood.) 

Fox. 
Good evening, oh, good evening ! How d'ye do ? 
Two charming little maids like you 
Should never walk alone. 

I see, my dears, you're really quite afraid of me. 
I'm not a handsome fellow, that I own, 
And if you bid me, I'll go my way alone. 
But come, my dears, I know you will — 
Come walk with me to yonder moonlit hill ; 
I'll show you where the vine's rich clusters grow; 
And you shall feast upon them — will you go ? 

(Aside.) 
I ask these silly geese on grapes to sup, 
But when I get them safe, I'll eat them up ! 

{Geese walk off, hand in hand, zvith Fox.) 

Scene III. 
(A pen made zvith chairs, Young Geese kneeling within)) 
Young Geese {in chorus). 
Oh, please let us out, kind sir, please do, 
And whatever you ask we will do for you. (Repeat)) 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 461 

Fox {with contempt). 

What! let you out, now that I've got you in? 
Why, my little dears, that would be a sin ! 
If you had been to your mother true, 
You'd have shunned the trap I laid for you. 
But now you are here, please don't blame me, 
It's all your own fault, as you can see. 
Young geese are silly, and the fox is sly, 
Did you think of that when I passed you by ? 
And you listened to me when I spoke to you, 
Is that what your mother advised you to do ? 
Oh, no ! my dears, you may cackle and squeal, 
But you're here to make me a luscious meal. 
Good sense is but folly when it comes too late ! 
And a goose must expect but a goose's fate ! 
So, to-night you may sup on regret and tears, 

To-morrow {smacks his lips) — good-night, pleasant dreams, my pretty 
dears ! 
{Aside .) 
I might have said more, but what's the use, 
Of talking good sense to a silly, young goose ; 
Young geese will be silly, and the fox is sly, 
Remember that, kind friends, good-bye ! good-bye ! 

Anna M. Ford. 



THE PORTRAIT. 

[Scene : A prettily-furnished sitting-room in a country house. An artist seated 
before an easel, on which is a blank canvas, slowly mixes colors on his palette. 
A girl stands at the further end of the room, becomingly gowned, posing for 
portrait, looking at him over her shoulder.] 

He {aside desparingly). 
I cannot paint a single line of her dear head ! 
Three days — and still this tell-tale blank ! My wits are fled ! 



462 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 



{Aloud, looking up at her). Pray, turn your head more to the left. 

{She obeys). There — that is well ! 
{Aside). Her eyes set tolling thro' my heart. 

She {pleadingly). 
But mayn't I turn a wee, wee bit, that I may see 
The motion of your brush at work? It's hard on me 
Just staring at a stupid wall from twelve to one ! 

He {aside, desperately). 
She must not turn her eyes this way, or I'm undone ! 
{Aloud, persuasively). I own it's slow, but, for art's sake, pray do not 

move. 
{Aside). And for the artist's, lest your gaze his madness prove. 

She {aside). 
I wonder why he paints my back ? Ah, how he sighs ! 
It's stupid not to pose me more, or paint my eyes. 
{Aloud). You must be nearly done ? {Aside). I hope he's not. 

He (confused, stammering). 
Yes, yes ! {Aside). Confound it ! What excuse ? I should be shot, 
She trusts me so. {Moodily). I know it is an awful bore, 
Kept from your friends. {Aside, savagely). She's thinking now of 
that brute, Moore ! 

She {with fervor). 

Oh, no, I love (He starts.) {Aside in confusion). What have I 

said! {Aloud, hastily). — the smell of paint. 
It makes some weaker girls, you know, feel very faint. 

He {frowns and mutters). 
A flirt, by Jove ! 

She. 
What did you say? {Aside, stealing a look at him). He's growing ill, 
Or bored to death. How sad he looks ! 
{Resolutely). I won't keep still. {Moves a step nearer). 

He {looking up, in consternation). 
You moved ! 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 463 

She {calmly). 

I did! 

He (sternly) . 
I asked you not. 

She {innocently). 
Oh, so you did ! 
{With mock penitence). Next time I'll recollect to do what I am bid. 

He (passionately). 
Child ! 

She {drawing herself up). 
Sir? 

He. 

Your eyes (stops abruptly). Yes, child — you try me so ! How 

can I work ! 

She (haughtily). 
Well, sir, my eyes — go on ! 

He (recklessly). 
Like robbers lurk, 
To stab my heart. 

She (mockingly, hiding her eyes zuith her fan). 
Bad eyes to jail and darkness get ! 
To make a man his temper lose and work neglect. 
For shame! 

, He (penitently). 

How rude am I ! Forgive my shameful haste ! 

She (sweetly). 
I will — on one condition, tho'. 

He (ardently). 
Quick, let me taste 
The bliss of pardon. 

She. 
'Tis this : You'll let me see 

If you have made a flattering sketch or daub of me. 

He (hastily rising, stands before easel). 
No, no, you ask too much ! 



464 DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 

She {drawing back in indignant surprise) . 
Too much, to simply state 
A wish to look ? {Aside). There must be more of fraud or hate 
Than love in this. O help me, pride! {Aloud, firmly). Now look I 

will, 
Tho' it should be Medusa's head, with gaze to kill. 

He {beseechingly, throwing curtain over canvas). 
I ask you not; in three days more you shall be ftee 
To gaze at will. 

She {advancing). 
You make me think of Bluebeard's key ! 
Like Fatima, I shall not know a moment's peace 
Till I have seen! {Advances). 

He {protesting). 

I warn 

She. 
No use ; your protests cease ; 

{Rholutely). I'll have my way. {Advances nearer). 
He {desperately). 
Well, then, I yield! {Drazvs curtain off of canvas). You have your 

way. 
{Sadly). A guest within your house I can no longer stay. {Stands 

dejectedly aside). 
{She bends forward cageidy, sees canvas, turns liastily away, her fan 
before her face). 

He {looks after her despairingly). 
So, now you know the truth of all your eyes have done ! 
They steal my wits, bewitch my skill, my brush outrun, 
And spoil the picture of my life — a stroke of fame ! 

She {coolly). 
If you preferred a dream to work, am I to blame ? 
It might have proved more fiat than this, your priceless pearl ! 
{Pauses. He moves toward the door . She drops fan aud makes gesture 
of bestowing). 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 465 

Here, take payment for your loss — 

(He stops and looks at her with indignant surprise. She turns f idly and, 
smiling, holds out both hands, speaking slowly) . 
This bad, bad girl ! 
(He stands, overcome with emotion, then rushes forward, rapturously , and 
clasps her hands). 

Isabel B. Bowman. 



THE COMPETING RAILROADS. 

A DIALOGUE FOR FOUR BOYS. 

No. i meets No. 4., zvho has a valise, and asks : 

Going East, sir ? 

No. 4 — Yes. 

No. 1 — Well, step right up to the Union Ticket Office. Great 
through line, sir. Land you in New York sixteen hours in advance 
of any other route. Finest sleeping and dining cars in the world ! 
Chicken three times a day, and beds free from vermin. Butter on two 
plates, and molasses all over the table. Come right along, sir. 

Here No. 2 appears and hurriedly inquires : 

Going East, sir ? 

No. 4 — Yes. 

No. 2 — Glad to meet you. Step over to the office. Shortest line 
to New York by twenty-seven miles. Put you in there nine hours 
ahead of any other line. Finest eating-houses in the world. Soup 
three times a day, and fleas bulldozed by machinery. Come •with me 
sir. 

No. 3 comes up from behind and asks : 

Going East, sir ? 

No. 4 — Yes. 

No. 3 — I'm just the man you want to see. Come along with me. 
Best and shortest route by a long shot to all points. Put you through 
in a jiffy. Splendid sleeping-cars on all night trains, and codfish-balls 
30 



466 DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 

for breakfast. Conductors all of pious and respectable parentage, and 

fires kept up constantly. Come along, sir. 

No. i takes No. 4. by the left shoulder, No. 2 takes him by the right 

shoulder, and No. 3 takes him by the coat-tail. In concert they all 

pull, and say : 

Come with me, sir. 

They all ease up, and each says to the others : 

Let go of this gentleman. 

Then they all ask : 

To what point are you going ? 
No. 4 — Going to Maria. 

Each one of the agents jerks out a railroad map and studies it intently. 
After looking on the map several minutes, each looks at the others and 
then at No. 4, and asks ; 

Where is Maria? . 

No. 4 — Where is Maria ? Why I s'pose she's to hum. Maria is 
my wife, and lives six miles east of town. 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 

Balcony Scene. 

Romeo. — He jests at scars that never felt a wound. 

Juliet appears on the Balcony, and sits down. 

But soft ! What light through yonder window breaks ! 

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun ! 

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, 

Who is already sick and pale with grief, 

That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. 

" It is my lady ; Oh! it is my love : 

Oh, that she knew she were ! " 

She speaks, yet she says nothing : what of that ? 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 467 

Her eye discourses : I will answer it. 

I am too bold. Oh, were those eyes in heaven, 

They would through the airy region stream so bright, 

That birds would sing, and think it were the morn. 

See, how she leans her. cheek upon her hand ! 

Oh, that I were the glove upon that hand, 

That I might touch that cheek ! 

Juliet. — Ah, me! 

Romeo. — She speaks, she speaks! 
Oh, speak again, bright angel ! for thou art 
As glorious to this sight, being o'er my head, 
As is a winged messenger of heaven 
To the up-turned wond'ring eyes of mortals, 
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, 
And sails upon the bosom of the air. 

Juliet. — Oh, Romeo, Romeo ! wherefore art thou, Romeo ? 
Deny thy father, and refuse thy name : 
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, 
And I'll no longer be a Capulet. 

Romeo. — Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this ? 

Juliet. — 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy : 
What's in a name? That which we call a rose, 
By any other name would smell as sweet ; 
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, 
Retain that dear perfection which he owes 
Without that title ! Romeo, quit thy name ; 
And for that name, which is no part uf thee, 
Take all myself. 

Romeo. — I take thee at thy word ! . 
Call me but love, I will forswear my name 
And never more be Romeo. 

Juliet. — What man art thou, that, thus bescreened in night 
So stumblest on my counsel? 

Romeo, — I know not how to tell thee who I am ! 



468 DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 

My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, 
Because it is an enemy to thee. 

Juliet. — My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words 
Of that tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound ! 
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague ? 

Romeo. — Neither, fair saint, if either thee displease. 

Juliet. — How cam'st thou hither? — tell me — and for what ? 
The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb ; 
And the place, death, considering who thou art, 
If any of my kinsmen find thee here. 

Romeo. — With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls ; 
For stony limits can not hold love out ; 
And what love can do, that dares love attempt ; 
Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me. 

Juliet. — If they do see thee here, they'll murder thee. 

Romeo. — Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye, 
Than twenty of their swords ! look thou but sweet, 
And I am proof against their enmity. 

Juliet. — I would not, for the world, they saw thee here ; 
By whose direction found'st thou out this place ? 

Romeo. — By love, who first did prompt me to inquire ; 
He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. 
I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far 
As that vast shore washed with the furthest sea, 
I would adventure for such merchandise. 

Juliet. — Thou know'st, the mask of night is on my face, 
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek, 
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night ! 
Fain would I dwell on form ; fain, fain deny 
What I have spoke ! But farewell compliment ! 
Dost thou love me ? I know thou wilt say — Ay, 
And I will take thy word ! yet, if thou swear'st, 
Thou may'st prove false; at lovers' perjuries, 
They say, Jove laughs. Oh, gentle Romeo, 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 469 

If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully ! 

Or, if thou think 'st I am too quickly won, 

I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay, 

So thou wilt woo ! but else, not for the world. 

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond : 

And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light ! 

But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true 

Than those that have more cunning to be strange. 

I should have been more strange, I must confess, 

But that thou overheard'st, ere I was 'ware, 

My true love's passion ; therefore, pardon me, 

And not impute this yielding to light love, 

Which the dark night has so discovered. 

Romeo. — Lady, by yonder blessed moon I vow — 

Juliet. — Oh ! swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon 

That monthly changes in her circled orb : 

Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. 



Romeo. — What shall I swear by ? 

Juliet. — Do not swear at all ; 
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, 
Which is the god of my idolatry, 
And I'll believe thee. 

Romeo. — If my true heart's love — 

Juliet. — Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, 
I have no joy of this contract to-night; 
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden, 
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be, 
'Ere one can say — It lightens. Sweet, good-night! 
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, 
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. 
Good-night, good-night ! — as sweet repose and rest 
Come to thy heart, as that within my breast! 

Romeo. — Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied ? 

Juliet. — What satisfaction canst thou have to-night ? 



470 DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 

Romeo. — The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine. 

Juliet. — I gave thee mine, before thou didst request it : 
And yet I would it were to give again. 

Romeo. — Would'st thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love? 

Juliet. — But to be frank, and give it thee again. 
My bounty is as boundless as the sea, 
My love as deep ; the more I give to thee, 
The more I have ; for both are infinite. 
I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu ! 

Nurse (within). — Madam ! 

Juliet. — Anon, good Nurse. Sweet Montague, be true. 
Stay but a little, I will come again. [Exit from balcony .] 

Romeo. — Oh! blessed, blessed night. I am afeard, 
Being in night, all this is but a dream, 
Too flattering sweet to be substantial. 



't> 



Re-enter Juliet, above. 

Juliet. — Three words, dear Romeo, and good-night, indeed. 
If that thy bent of love be honorable, 
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, 
By one that I'll procure to come to thee, 
Where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite ; 
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay ; 
And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world. 

Nurse {within). — Madam? 

Juliet. — I come anon ! But if thou mean'st not well, 
I do beseech thee — 

Nurse (within). — Madam ! 

Juliet. — By and by, I come ! 
To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief. 
To-morrow will I send. 

Romeo.-— So thrive my soul — 

Juliet. — A thousand times good-night ! 

Romeo. — A thousand times the worse, to want thy light. \_Exit^\ 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 471 

Re-enter Juliet. 

Juliet. — Hist ! Romeo, hist ! Oh, for a falconer's voice, 
To lure this tassel gentle back again ! 
Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud ; 
Else would he fear the cave where Echo lies, 
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine, 
With repetition of my Romeo's name. 

Romeo entering. 

Romeo. — It is my love that calls upon my name ! 
How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, 
Like softest music to attending ears ! 

Juliet. — Romeo ! 

Romeo. — My sweet ! 

Juliet. — At what o'clock to-morrow 
Shall I send to thee ? 

Romeo. — At the hour of nine. 

Juliet. — I will not fail : 'tis twenty years till then. 
I have forgot why I did call thee back. 

Romeo. — Let me stand here till thou remember it. 

Juliet. — I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, 

* 

Rememb'ring how I love thy company. 

Romeo. — And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget, 
Forgetting any other home but this. 

Juliet, — 'Tis almost morning ; I would have thee gone, 
And yet no further than a wanton's bird ; 
Who lets it hop a little from her hand, 
And with a silk thread plucks it back again, 
So loving-jealous of its liberty. 

Romeo. — I would I were thy bird. 

Juliet. — Sweet, so would I ! 
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. 
Good-night, good-night ! Parting is such sweet sorrow 



472 DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 

That I shall say — Good-night, till it be morrow. 

\_Exit from balcony .] 
Romeo. — Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast ! 
Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest ! 
Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell ; 
His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell. 

William Shakespeare. 

HOW MRS. GASKELL DID NOT HIRE A COOK. 

[Written expressly for this Volume.] 

Mrs. Gaskell, 
Mrs. Langton, 
Miss Susan Bighead, 
Characters^ Ah Ling, 

Miss Perkins, 
Bridget O'Flanigan, 
. Maud Angelina Snigginson. 

Scene. — [A sitting-room. Mrs. Gaskell in conversation with her mother, 
Mrs. Langton, who has come in to help her decide as to those who shall 
answer her advertisement] . 

Mrs. G. — Ah, well, mother, I don't suppose I can ever quite replace 
my good, faithful Maggie ; but I must have some one in her place. It 
is simply impossible to get along with my family, with the help I now 
have. I am just neglecting the children these days, and our meals are 
daily a problem unsatisfactorily solved. 

Mrs. L. — Very true, my dear. I really do not know what we 
American housekeepers are going to do for help in a few years. It is 
rapidly getting more and more difficult to secure a competent servant. 

[Here a loud jingle of the door-bell is heard and presently a small maid 
ushers in the first applicant, an English woman, who enters with a fine 
toss of the head] . 

Mrs. G. {kindly). — Good afternoon. Please be seated. You have 
come in reply to my advertisement? What is your name ? 

Susan. — My name is Susan Bighead. Hi 'ave come, mum, because 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 473 

your place was 'ihly recommended to me, but hi don't know as after 
all, mum, hi care to apply, bein' as 'ow your place is so small, mum. 
Hi 'ave alius been in large places, mum, hi 'ave. Hi 'ave alius been 
with the gentry, mum, in my hown counthry. In course, hit's not 
such a fool that hi am, mum, to be hexpectin' to find any such thing 
in Ameriky, mum, but hit's hexpectin' somethin' tonier and genteeler 
than this that hi am, mum, that hi am. O this would niver do for the 
loikes of me, mum. Ye wouldn't suit me at all, mum. Hit's not to 
be thought of for a minit, murn, hi 

Mrs. G. {conquering her indignation enougli to stem this torrent 
of poor English) — Hadn't you better retire at once and not waste so 
much breath in such an insignificant place ? 

Susan. — 0, yis, mum, hi think hi will. Ye would niver suit me at 
all, mum. 

Mrs. G. (with sarcastic deference). — Shall / show you to the door ? 

Susan. — Per'aps ye had betther, mum, seein' as 'ow hit is so small, 
mum, hi might not be able to find hit, mum. 

Mrs. G. [takes a step and points sternly and significantly to the door. 
Exit Susan. Then Mrs. G. fairly gasping with indignation and amaze- 
ment exclaims) : Well, I declare ! That quite takes away my breath. 
If this is the way they open up, we have the prospect of a lively after- 
noon, not altogether diverting. 

Mrs. L. — It is humiliating, of course. But good and considerate 
mistresses must often suffer for the faults of their sisters less wise and 
humane. There is compensation in it, you see. 

Mrs. G. — Ah, yes ! But I fail to see why I, who pride myself on 
being a very considerate employer, should be the one singled out to be 
the object of this beautiful compensation. There's another ring. 
I must summon all my dignity, and Christian forbearance \ 

(Maid ushers in tins time a smiling, obsequious Chinaman?) 

[This character can be managed with the aid of a false headpiece and 
some painty 

Mrs. G. (hardly able to conceal her amazement and amusement). — Ah! 
Good afternoon. Pray, be seated. You came to apply as a servant ? 



474 DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 

Ah Ling {rises and bows most obsequiously and beams upon Mrs G). 

Mrs. G. — I am sorry, but I had not thought of having a man. 
I can not well provide a home for a man. My house is not very large 
and my other servants are girls. 

Ah Ling. — 0, me no bother the ladies. Me not likeethem. They 
pokee fun at me. But me cookee belly well. 

Mrs. G. — I don't doubt it. I am sorry, but I can not well engage 
a man. 

Ah Ling. — Me washee too — washee belly well. Me iron, make the 
shirtee shinee — shinee fine. 

Mrs. G. — I presume you could help eNcellently but I can not engage 
you because you are a man. 

Ah Ling. — You no likee man ? Man much better than lazy, sassy, 
Mellican gallee. Better takee Ah Ling. 

Mrs. G. {rising and speaking very decisively). — I am very sorry, but, 
you see, it is impossible. (Touches bell). Nancy, please show Ah 
Ling to the door. I am sorry, but I must say good afternoon. 

Ah Ling {goes out looking over his shoulder and reiterating). — Me 
much better than galee. Mellican galee lazy, sassy. Me stay in 
nights, cookee, washee. 

Mrs. G. — I must confess that is a character I had not counted on. 
What will come next I wonder ! Ah ! I shall not have long to 
wonder, it seems. 

[Nancy ushers in a tall, thin, spectacled girl with an intellectual cast 
of countenance , hair drawn tightly back, plain shabby gown, plain 
unbecoming hat, gloves worn out at the fingers, several books under one 
arm, a book satchel and umbrella grasped in the other hand. The new- 
comer looks very critically at Mrs. 6\] 

Mrs. G. {Looks blank, then thinking this caller must be after something 
else, rises, and varies her usual kind formula somcivhat). Good after- 
noon. Will you be seated ? 

Miss Perkins {in very precise, lofty tones). — Do I address Mrs. 
Gaskell ? 

Mrs. G.— I am Mrs. Gaskell. 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 475 

Miss P. — I called to present myself as an applicant for the position 
of assistant in your household during the summer. 

Mrs. G. (her astonishment overcoming her good-breeding). — You! 
Oh ! Indeed ! I beg your pardon. You do not look as if you were 
accustomed to the kind of work I desire. I want a girl for housework 
— cooking in fact. 

Miss P. — I understand that perfectly, Madame. I am working my 
way through a university course and am accustomed to labor during 
my vacations. I shall be all that you desire, Mrs. Gaskell, and 
probably more than you thought of expecting, for I can supply you 
with much that will be to your advantage, beside base labor. 

Mrs. G. — But are you a skilled cook ? 

Miss P. {waving her hand loftily). — Permit me to question you, Mrs. 
Gaskell. Are you conversant with French and German so that you 
and I can revel together in the choicest minds of those literatures ? 
Are you a sympathetic student of Browning ? Do you grasp his 
philosophy? Ah ! then, his poetry has no obscurity for you. Do you 
luxuriate in Keats and Ibsen and Dobson ? Do you dote on Emerson 
and Herbert Spencer ? Do you glory in Carlyle and do you spend 
blissful, inspiring hours with the grand old masters of our own tongue 
and of Greece and- 

Mrs. G. {with both hands raised in protest and amazement, impatience 
and laughter all struggling for mastery , gasps out) : — -My dear Miss 

Miss P. — Elizabeth Priscilla Hutchinson Adams Perkins, recently 
of Radcliffe College, School of Technology and Boston School of 
Emerson Philosophy. 

Mrs. G. (inuch overcome). — My dear Miss Philosophy 

Miss P. (severely)-. — Perkins. 

Mrs. G. — I beg your pardon. My dear Miss Perkins, there is some 
mistake. I am seeking a good cook, not a governess — or I beg 
pardon — a college professor, I should say, perhaps. 

Miss P. — You are seeking some one to prepare your material food 
Here is an opportunity — a rare opportunity I assure you — to secure a 
helper who can feed your soul — ah ! yes, your soul. O, Mrs. 



476 DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 

Gaskell, if you too feel this soul-hunger, together we can live on the 
heights and rise and rise 

Mrs. G. {protesting). — But, my dear Miss Perkins, I am only a very 
ordinary human being, a housekeeper and a mother with several 
growing boys and girls, and a big hungry husband who is inclined to 
be fastidious as to his chops and roasts 

Miss P. {with lofty disdain). — Chops ! Roasts ! Husbands ! Young 
ones! What are these that they should be thought of when you have 
a soul to feed ! 

Mrs. G. — But men and children insist upon having their stomachs fed 
and I myself am just mediocre enough to require well-cooked food 

Miss P. — Lift your soul above these material wants 

Mrs. G. — But my family i 

Miss P. — Lift your own soul and thus lift theirs. I can show you 
the way. Ah ! Mrs. Gaskell, we can spend a blissful summer in these 
higher realms. 

Mrs. G. — If the lower realm of my kitchen were not well presided 
ever, I assure you, Miss Perkins, the individuals whose needs I have 
to consider as well as my own would make it far from blissful for us. 
Really, Miss Perkins, I fear I can not see the way to another realm 
quite so quickly and so easily and I couldn't think of allowing you to 
sacrifice yourself to the task of trying to lift so much intellectual 
mediocrity. 

Miss P. (in a very superior manner). — You refuse to improve the 
opportunity of securing such companionship as mine? 

Mrs. G. — I feel obliged to forego such an advantage. 

Miss P. {with lofty compassion). — I pity you, Mrs. Gaskell, I pity 
you, that you are so bound down. But it is better I should not 
attempt such a task. You would be a dead weight to a mind and soul like 
mine. No, I could not dwell in such a gross, materialistic atmosphere. 

Mrs. G. (very suavely). — Then shall I bid you good afternoon, Miss 
Perkins? 

Miss P. — Ah, yes ! There is nothing gained in wasting my thoughts 
and aspirations and time. Good afternoon, Mrs. Gaskell. 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 477 

\As the front door announces the departure of Miss P., Mrs. G. and 
Airs. L. turn squarely around towards each other, with eyes and mouths 
open with amazement. Then they burst into peals of laughter which is 
stopped only by the loud ringing of the bell. Enter a big. dirty looking 
Irish woman who seats herself comfortably and smiles familiarly atid 
patronizingly on Mrs. G\] 

Mrs. G. — {Chokes back her laughter sufficiently to murmur good after- 
noon and in turn stares helplessly at the new-comer for a moment). — 
You have come to see about work. What is your name ? 

Bridget. — Bridget O'Flanigan, mum. 

Mrs. G. — Well, Bridget, are you a good cook ? 

Bridget.— That Oi am, mum. Barrin' the mates and the pois and 
the vigitable trash — fodder Oi calls it, mum — and the Ameriky brid, 
and their pesky cakes and puddin's, mum, Oi kin cuke loike an angil, 
mum. 

Mrs. G. — Well, but, Bridget, what do you cook ? You have made 
so many exceptions. • 

Bridget. — No, mum, Oi kin be afther cuking no exciptions, mum, 
but Oi kin cuke praties loike an angil, mum. Oi jhust pops 'im into 
the kittle of wather, mum, and Oi niver have a bit of ill luck, mum, 
savin' whin Oi jhust drops off for a wink, mum, and the wather goes 
dhry, mum. 

Mrs. G. — Oh ! Ah ! Yes — I understand. Well, Bridget, I fear 
you will not do for my purpose as I expect my cook to do all the 
cooking and we find it necessary to have something besides potatoes. 

Bridget. — Not do, mum? What kin the swate lady be thinkin' 
uv? Oi am a jewel of a servint, mum. Oi am not out all the toime 
loike those giddy gurls, mum. Jhust giv' me my tobaccy and drap 
uv' rum, mum, and Oi kapes as quiet as a lamb, mum, the day long. 

Mrs. G. — I fear you would be altogether too quiet, too passive as 
to work, Bridget, and I need a great deal of help. I think we need 
not discuss the matter longer. (Rising). 

Bridget (iiidignantly). — Oh, if yez want to wurruk a servint to 
deth, mum, why to be shure yez shant have a chance to wurruk 



478 DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 

Bridget O'Flannigan. If yez onreasonable enough to want more 
worruk and guv less priviliges than Oi offer, mum, yez may hunt till 
yez finds such a fool, mum. [Exit Bridget in high dudgeon?^ 

Mrs. G. — Well, mother, this is ceasing to be amusing, and is 
getting discouraging. I am beginning to fear I cannot secure good 
servants any longer, and we shall just have to board. 

Mrs. L. — Then the difficulty will be to get a boarding-house where 
they will take children. 

Mrs. G. — Ah, yes ! The poor children will have to be boarded at 
an orphan asylum or the poorhouse, I suppose. Eventually, we will 
have to have in this country institutions for boarding children and call 
them " Homes for Unfortunates." 

Mrs. L. — Well, there is the bell again. Let us hope once more. 

[Nancy ushers in a very much over-dressed girl, who walks in with a 
very supercilious air, helps herself to a chair with considerable flourish, 
and proceeds to inspect the room and the tzuo ladies with much sharpness 
and arrogance /\ • 

Mrs. G. {with marked disapproval in her voice). — You have come to 
apply for a place ? What is your name ? 

Maud (pertly). — My name is Maud Angelina Snigginson, and I 
came to inquire into the place you are offering. 

Mrs. G. (drily). — Yes. Well, there is not much to explain. I 
want a good cook. Can you supply that need ? 

Maud. — Just let me put a few questions at you, Mrs. G. (Maud 
speaks only the initial letter^ That will be more business-like. Do 
you keep a butler? How many maids have you? Do you keep a 
carriage and a coachman? Is this the only house you have? I 
mean, have you a country place? Do you give your cook an 
assistant — that is, to wash the dishes, do all the plain cooking, and 
wait on the lady who is head cook ? Have you a ball-room, a 
billiard-room, a music-room, and sufficient bath-rooms for your 
upper assistants ? Do you ever require a cook to be in evenings, 
and how many days in the week and what part of the winter do 
you require her assistance ? What is the salary per year ? Have 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 479 

you any children ? And do you think your dresses would fit 
me? 

Mrs. G. {haughtily). — Really, I do not quite follow you, but my 
requirements and perquisites are easily made known. I have chil- 
dren. I pay five dollars a week. I expect my cook to work six 
days and her presence every evening, or seven days and three evenings 
out. I keep no men-servants, and I do not furnish amusement, except 
reading matter, but I try — 

Maud. — That's enough. You needn't say any more. I shouldn't 
think of your offer for an instant. Mrs. G., you are not tony enough 
for me. I wouldn't have young 'uns around me, you better believe, 
and I couldn't think of stopping in such a meagre establishment. I 
am accustomed to such very different circumstances. I couldn't exist 
here. 

Mrs. G. {with no effort to restrain her righteous indignation). — I 
should not think of asking you to exist here. You would not suit me 
under any conditions. Permit me to bid you good afternoon. Nancy, 
show this young woman the door. 

Maud {flirting out). — I should think not. I am used to better things. 

Mrs. G. — Well, mother, I have had enough for one day. We will 
tell Nancy to admit no more. I shall tie up my head in a wet towel 
and take a sleeping powder, and try to recover my senses. This is 
altogether too much for me ! 



THE EXCITEMENT AT KETTLEVILLE. 

Characters. 

Bodkins — late in the employ of Messrs. Flimsy & Gauze. 

Ditto — a Young Man about town, famous in private theatricals. 

Tincture — a Man with a Diploma. 

Moper — a Disappointed Candidate. 

Ponder — a Alan who thinks before he speaks. 

Tommy — a Youthful Bill-sticker. 

Miss Haverway — a Popular Young Lecturer. 



480 DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 

Enter Bodkins and Ditto, right, and Tincture, Moper and Ponder, 
one after the other, from the opposite side. 

Bodkins. — Well met, gentlemen, well met ! We are all of one 
way of thinking, I .presume, in regard to the business of to-night? 

Ditto. — I hope, gentlemen, that Kettleville will do her duty and 
her whole duty on this occasion. 

Tincture. — We must put a stop to this woman's rights movement, 
or it will put a stop to us. Action, heroic action, as we doctors say, 
is the only remedy. Now's the time. 

Moper. — How will you do it? That's the question. It can't be 
done. 

Bodkixs. — Brother Moper, you are always looking on the dark side 
of things. Why can't it be done ? 

Moper. — Because the women carry too many guns for us. 

Bodkins. — Guns? Guns? Does this little Miss Haverway carry 
a gun ? 

Moper. — She doesn't carry anything else. That little morocco 
roll, or cylinder, in which she pretends to carry her lecture, is an air- 
gun — a deadly weapon. 

Bodkins. — Possible? But that's a matter for the police to look 
into. Ha, ha ! We are not to be intimidated, gentleman — eh ? We 
are true Americans. No cowards among us — eh ? The blood of 
seventy-six does not — does not — 

Ditto. — Stagnate in our veins. 

Bodkins. — Thank you, sir. Does not stagnate in our veins. 
Surely not in mine — not in mine ! 

Ponder. — May I be allowed to ask a question 

All. — Certainly. 

Ponder. — What are we here for? 

Bodkins. — We are here, Mr. Ponder, to protest against allowing 
the town hall to be used to-night by one Miss Haverway for her lec- 
ture on woman's rights. I appeal to every young man in the land, 
ought it not to make our blood — our blood — 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 481 

Ditto. — Boil with indignation. 

Bodkins. — Thank you, sir. Boil with indignation, to see these 
attempts, on the part of certain audacious women, to oppress us, and 
take the bread out of our mouths, just as we are entering on our 
several careers ? 

Ditto. — Gentlemen, what could be more — more — excuse this 
burst of feeling. There are chords — well, sir, go on. 

Bodkins. — Consider my own case, gentlemen. I had a snug situa- 
tion in the store of Messrs. Flimsy & Gauze, the great dealers in 
muslins, laces and such. An easy berth. All I had to do was to 
stand behind a counter and show the lady customers the newest styles 
of collars. All at once I am told that my services are not wanted. 
And, gentlemen, as if to add insult to injury, I am advised that the 
spade and the plow expect me — me, with my delicate physique. Gen- 
tlemen, why, why were my services no longer required ? 

Ditto. — Yes, why, gentlemen — why — why? If, gentlemen, one 
single reminiscence of Lexington and Bunker Hill lingers in your 
minds — if — if — excuse me. I was carried away by my feelings. Go 
on, Mr. Bodkins. 

Bodkins. — My dismissal was accompanied with the information 
that a young lady — a young lady {sarcastically) — -had been selected 
to take my place. 

Tincture and Moper. — Shame ! Shame ! Too bad ! Too bad ! 

Ditto. — Atrocious ! Yes, abominable ! 

Moper. — I tell you, we are all going to the bad just as fast as we 
can go. The world isn't the world it used to be. 

Ditto. — Gentlemen, there was a time when the whole business of 
making and trimming bonnets, and of making female dresses, was in 
the hands of men. Any reader of Shakespeare must be aware of this. 
That time must be revived. The case of my friend Bodkins calls for 
re-dress — re-dress, gentlemen. 

Tincture. — Hear me, sir, and you will admit that my case still more 
eloquently cries — cries — 

Ditto. — Aloud for vengeance. 
31 



482 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 



Tincture. — Ay, that's it. I was, as you may be aware, bred 
a physician. My father, agent for the sale of Plantation Bitters, gave 
me a diploma. It hangs framed over my mantel-piece. You may see 
it, any of you, without charge. No sooner had I settled down in the 
flourishing village of Onward, no sooner had I begun to physic and 
bleed the enterprising inhabitants, than a young woman calling herself 
a doctress — ha, ha ! a doctress — made her appearance. 

Ditto. — Shame! Shame! Humbug, thy name is — woman! 

Bodkins. — There it is again ! Woman ! Always woman ! 

Moper. — I tell you, it's no use. We've got to come to it. We 
may as well be resigned, and put our noses peaceably down to the 
grindstone. 

Ditto. — Never ! Never ! No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no ! 
False Douglas, thou hast lied. 

Moper. — You'll sec, sir — you'll see. Gentlemen, I can relate a still 
more exasperating case. The humble individual who addresses you 
studied for the ministry. I was a candidate to fill the pulpit in that 
same village of Onward. I had the reputation of being the most 
depressing preacher ever heard in those parts. 

Ditto. — Not poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy sirups of 
the East — . Go on, sir ; I was only musing aloud. 

Moper. — Everything looked encouraging. On one occasion, after 
I had preached, not a man, woman or child of the congregation was 
seen to smile for a week. Everything, I say, looked encouraging, 
when, all at once — 

Ditto. — When all at once there appeared a woman ! 

Moper. — You are right, sir ; there appeared a woman. Will you 
believe it? The infatuated people of Onward have settled her over 
their first religious society. A woman ! 

Ditto. — A female woman ! Be ready, gods, with all your thunder- 
bolts ! Dash her in pieces ! Must we endure all this ? 

Bodkins. — Why, sir, in a degenerate city of degenerate New Eng- 
land, the city of Worcester — 



Ditto.- 



-Three groans for Worcester. 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. , 483 

Bodkins. — They have actually elected women to serve on the school 
committee. 

Ditto. — Enough ! Enough ! I have supped full of horrors. 

Moper. — Oh, that's nothing to what we shall have to swallow. 

Ditto. — Thus bad begins, but worse remains behind. 

Bodkins. — I had a brother — 

Ditto. — I had a brother once — a gentle boy. 

Bodkins. — Mine went into a printing office to learn to set type. 
He hadn't been there a week when a girl was admitted ; and now — 
now — just because she can set type twice as fast as any of the men, 
she is allowed equal wages. 

Ditto. — There it is again ! The irrepressible woman ! Why didn't 
they tear down the printing office ? Equal wages indeed ! 

Bodkins. — Well, my brother, who is a brave little fellow, did the 
best thing he could ; he helped snow-ball the girl, and succeeded 
in hitting her on the head with a piece of ice. 

Ditto. — He shall have a pension. Served her right. Equal wages 
indeed ! 

Tincture. — And yet there are men — fiends, rather, in human 
shape, libels on their sex — who pretend to see no reason why women 
shouldn't be doctors, ministers, lawyers, architects, builders, merchants, 
manufacturers — in short, whatever they please or chance to have 
a faculty for. 

Bodkins. — See how they are crowding us men out of the paths of 
literature and art ! Look at Mrs. Stowe! She is paid more for a 
single page than my friend Vivid, author of " The Beauty of Broadway," 
gets for a whole volume. 

Tincture. — Look at Rosa Bonheur, painter of beasts ! 

Ditto. — Let's all go and have her take our likenesses. 

Tincture. — See her rolling in wealth, while my friend Daub, with 
a family to support, sees his splendid productions, so rich in all the 
colors of the rainbow, unsold in the auction rooms ! 

Moper. — What are we going to do about it ? That's the question. 

Ditto. — -Awake, arise, or be forever fallen. 



484 DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 

Bodkins. — And they are talking now of giving women the suffrage 
— letting them vote. 

Ditto. — When that time comes, find me on Torno's cliff or Pamba- 
marca's side 

Ponder. — May I be permitted to ask a question ? 

Bodkins. — Certainly. We all go for free speech ; that is, for free 
masculine speech. 

Ponder. — Aren't we all in favor of the principle of no taxation 
without representation ? Answer me that. 

All. — Certainly. No doubt of it. Of course we are. 

Ponder. — Well, then, if women are taxed, ought they not 

Ditto. — Gag him. Stop him. He has said enough. 

Ponder. — I say if women are taxed, ought they not 

Bodkins. — Silence ! We've had enough of that sort of talk. 

Ditto. — He's a woman's rights man. I thought as much. How 
like a fawning publican he looks ! 

Tincture. — Kettleville is no place for you, sir. 

Ditto. — No, sir. Mount a velocipede and strike a bee-line for 
Worcester. That's your safe plan. Hence, horrible shadow ! Unreal 
mockery, hence ! 

Ponder. — Gentlemen, strike, but hear. You'd admit, I suppose, 
that women must live. What, then, would you have them do ? 

Bodkins. — Do ? Why, tend the children and wash clothes. 

Tincture. — I don't know about that. I don't like to see our 
primary schools kept by young women, whilst there are so many 
deserving young men out of employment. 

Ditto. — That's the talk. And as for washing clothes, how many 
good, honest fellows are hard pushed through the absurd custom of 
giving these jobs of washing and ironing to women ! 

Ponder. — But, gentlemen, be reasonable. Women must live — 
must have some means of support — must 

Ditto. — Tr-r-r-raitor to thy sex ! Don't we come first ? Are they 
not our born thralls ? Are not we their natural lords and masters ? 
Wretch, whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance ! 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 485 

Ponder. — Really, Mr. Ditto, I am not accustomed to be treated in 
this-most extraordinary, most vituperative, most ungentlemanly 

Bodkins. — Peace, gentlemen ! Let everything be harmonious, I 
beg you, on this occasion. We have met informally to consider the 
means of preventing the spread in Kettleville of these wild heretical 
notions concerning women's rights, now so prevalent. Miss Haver- 
way shall not lecture in Kettleville. Are we all agreed upon that ? 

Ditto. — Are we all agreed ? 

Enter Tommy, a bill-poster. Tincture takes one of the bills. Tommy 
prepares to paste up another. 

Tincture. — Ha ! What have we here ? A poster ! An announce- 
ment of the lecture. (Reads?) "The celebrated Miss Havervvay, 
lecturer on woman's rights — " {To Tommy.) Youth, forbear ! 

Tommy. — I'm not a youth, and I'll not forbear. Touch me, and 
I'll daub you with paste. 

Bodkins. — Boy, stop that, or you'll rue the day. We shall tear 
down that bill. 

Tincture. — Save your paste, youth, and vanish. 

Tommy threatens them with his brush ; they retreat. 

Ditto. — Punch him, jam him, down with him! He's nothing but 
an orphan, and there's no one to help him. 

Moper. — I think I may safely hit him with my cane. 

As he draws near to strike, enter Miss Haverway with a cylindrical roll 
of papers in her liand. Moper, Bodkins and Tincture show great 
alarm as she points it at them. 

Miss H. — What's all this? Tommy, what's the matter? 
Tommy. — These fellows talk of pitching into me. I should like to 
see them do it; that's all. 
Miss H. — So would I. 

Tommy. — They threaten to tear down your poster. 
Miss H. — Do they? We'll see. 



486 DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 

Tommy. — I'll paste 'em all up against the wall, if you say so, Miss^ 
Miss H. — Leave them to me, Tommy, and proceed with your work 

Exit Tommy, singing, " O, I wish I was in Dixie." 

Bodkins {aside). — I don't quite like the looks of things. 

Miss H. {approaching Bodkins). — Well, sir, have you any objection 
to my bill ? Have you any objection to me, sir ? 

Bodkins. — My dear lady — 

Miss H. — Don't dear vie, sir; and don't lady me, sir. Call me 
plain woman. 

Bodkins, Tincture and Moper zvatcJi the roll in her hands, and 
manifest alarm when she points it at them. 

Bodkins. — Well, then, plain woman, I — I — I — that is, we — my 
friends here — Moper, Tincture and the rest — not being quite able to 
see this matter of woman's rights in the light that you — your lady- 
ship — I mean you plain woman — see it in — ■ 

Miss H. {explosively). — And why not, sir? Why not, I should like 
to know ? 

Bodkins gets behind Tincture. Miss Haverway paces the stage in 

an excited manner. 

Tincture. — We only thought, madame, there would be no harm in 
ventilating — that is, discussing — the points at issue, and so — 

Miss H. {stoppi?ig suddenly before him). — Points? Points? {Point- 
ing the roll at him.) Tell me the truth. What have you been plot- 
ting ? No evasion ! 

Bodkins and Tincture get behind Moper. 

Tincture {thrusting Moper forward). — This gentleman, madame, 
will explain. 

Moper. — If you'll have the goodness, madame, just to lower the 
point of your air-gun — 

She thrusts the roll at Moper, and he retreats behind Bodkins and 

Tincture. 

Miss H. {to Ditto). — Well, sir — and you ? 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 487 

Ditto {laughing). — I, Miss Haverway? In me behold your very 
humble servant. These gentlemen, conservative citizens of Kettle- 
ville, all except my friend Ponder here, I regret to say, have been 
making rare fools of themselves. They met for the preposterous pur- 
pose of devising some way of preventing you from lecturing this 
evening. To learn their plans, and, at the same time, to have some 
fun on my own account, I pretended to be one of the conspirators, 
and it is only now that I throw off the mask, and declare to them and 
to you that the booby who lifts a voice or a hand to prevent your 
lecturing, as you propose, will have to measure arms in set pugilistic 
encounter with your true knight to command, Mr. Frederick Ditto. 

Miss H. — Who says the days of chivalry are gone ? Sir, I thank you. 

Ditto. — I have but one demand to make of these gentlemen, and that 
is, that they all attend your lecture. Mr. Ponder will come, I know. 

Ponder. — That was my intention from the first. 

Miss H. (to Bodkins). — You will come, sir? (As he hesitates, she 
lifts her roll?) 

Bodkins. — Really — Oh, yes, I'll come. Shall be most happy. 
(Examining her collar?) Real point lace, I declare ! 

Miss H. (to Tincture). — And you, sir? 

Tincture. — Unless my patients — 

Miss H. — No excuse, sir. 

Tincture. — I will come. (Aside.) I wish I could prescribe for 
her just once. 

Miss H. (to Moper). — You will follow their example, sir, of course? 

Moper. — Excuse me, but — (seeing her roll leveled at him) — I will 
not fail, madame, to be present. 

Miss H. — I thought so. 

Ditto. — Allow me to escort you, Miss Haverway, to your hotel. 
Mr. Ponder, will you join us ? (Ponder bozvs assent?) 
\As the three go off right, Miss H. turns and goes toward the otJiers 

with roll extended, when Bodkins, Tincture and Moper go off 

abruptly on the left. Exeunt Omnesi] 

Epes Sargent. 



488 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 



CORPORAL PUNISHMENT. 

Characters. 

Master Hickory — an Old-fashioned School Teacher. 
John Smith — his Pupil. 

Scene. — a large boy zvith spectacles on, holds a rattan in his hand. 

He calls up a small boy. 

[The boy wlw personates the teacher must be very carefid lest in his 
zeal he strikes hard blows. The pupil must appear to suffer very 
much. This dialogue is a capital hit at the pleasure some teachers 
seem to take in punishing.] 

Mr. H.— John Smith ! 

John. — Here, sir. 

Mr. H. — Come from your "nere" hither. (John moves slowly and 
reluctantly up to the desk?) John Smith you have been guilty of 
throwing stones, which I forbade. (John hangs his head disconsolately) 
John Smith, it is of no use to look sorrowful now ; you should have 
thought of sorrow before you committed the offense (reaching down 
the cane). You are aware, John Smith, that those who do evil must 
be punished ; and you, John, must therefore be punished. Is it not so ? 

(John looks pitiftdly up at the master) 

J. — Oh, sir! I will never do so again. 

Mr. H. — I hope you will not, John ; but as you forgot the prohibi- 
tion when left to your unassisted memory, the remembrance of the 
smart now to be administered will be the more likely to prevent 
a relapse in future. Hold out your hand. {Whack) 

J. — Oh, sir! I will never do so again. 

Mr. H. — I hope not; hold out your hand again. {Whack, and 
a screech from John.) Now, John, you begin to perceive the con- 
sequence of disobedience. 

J. — Oh, yes, sir — enough, sir, enough, sir. {Starts to go back to his 
seat) 

Mr. H. — By no means, John. You are somewhat convinced of 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 489 

your error, but yet not sensible of the justice of your punishment and 
the quantum due to you. Hold out your other hand. {Whack and 
a scream?) 

J. — Mercy, sir, I will never- {Blubbering?) 

Mr. H. — It is all for your good, John ; hold out your left hand 
again. Even-handed justice ! Why don't you do as you are bid, sir, 
eh ? {A slash across the shoulders?) 

J. — Oh, oh ! {Jumping up and down?) 

Mr. H . — That's a good boy ! ( Whack on the hand again?) That's a 
good boy ! ( Whack?) Now, John, you feel that it is all for your good ? 

J. — Oh, no, sir — oh no! It is very bad, very sore. 

Mr. H. — Dear me, John. Hold out again, sir. I must convince 
you that it is justice and all for your good. {A rain of stripes on hand 
and back, John bellowing all the while?) You must feel that it is for 
your good, my boy. 

J. — Oh, yes, sir — oh, yes-s-s-s-s. 

Mr. H. — That's a good lad; you're right again. 

J. — It is all for my good, sir; it is all for my good. 

Mr. H. — Indeed it is, my dear. There! — {Whack, whack.) Now 
thank me, John. (John hesitates. — Whack, whack?) 

J. — Oh, oh ! Thank you, sir ; thank you very much. I will never 
do so again ; thank you, sir. Oh, sir, tha-a-a-nks. 

Mr. H. — That's a dear, good boy. Now you may go to your 
place, and sit down and cry as much as you wish, but without 
making any noise. And then you must learn your lesson. And, 
John, you will not forget my orders again. You will be grateful for 
the infliction I have bestowed upon you. You will feel that justice is 
a great and certain principle. You may see, also, how much your 
companions may be benefitted by your example. Go and sit down ; 
there's a good boy, John. I might have punished you more severely 
than I have done — you know that, John ? {Holds up the cane?) 

J, — Oh, yes, sir. 

Mr. H. — You thank me sincerely for what I have given you ? 
{Holding up the cane?) 



490 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 



J. — Oh, yes, sir — no, sir — I don't know, sir. 

Mr. H. — You don't know, hey? (Whack, zvhack /) I'll teach you. 
Take that. You don't know whether you thank me, hey? (Whack ) 
zvhack /) 

J. — Oh, yes, sir, I do ! I do. 

Mr. H. — Do what? 

J. — Do know, sir. 

Mr. H. — Do know what? 

J. — Oh, sir, my Sunday-school teacher tells me never to lie and 
you wish me to say I thank you, when 

Mr. H. — When what? Speak out, sir! When what? 

J. — When I don't, I can't, I won't, if you kill me. 

Mr. H. — You have lied, then, John ; for you told me just now that 
you did thank me. I must punish you for lying also. (Raising Ids cane.) 

J. — Oh, sir, I was so frightened, I said anything, sir. 

Mr. H. — John, do you know how sinful it is to lie? 

J. — Oh, yes, sir, my Sabbath-school teacher tells me it is. 

Mr. H. — Then, John, you must be whipped till you are sensible of 
the awful nature of your sin. Take off your coat, John ; you will 
thank me one of these days for my care of you, John. (Both exeunt 
John taking off coat}) Young Folks' Rural. 



Characters 



THE FROG HOLLOW LYCEUM. 

President Burns, 
Secretary Peleg Swipes, 
Felix Riddle, 
Samuel Slabside, 
Betsey Scruggins, 
Polly Snipper, 
Ann Eliza Slimkins, 
Jane Jones, 
John Brown, 
Boys. 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 491 

Scene — A School-room. 

President Burns {in the chair'). — This meetin' will now come to 
order. Jim Burke and the rest o' them thar boys over thar will take 
off their hats and stop a crackin' hick'ry nuts. Mr. Secretary, call the 
roll. 

Secretary Swipes {calls) — Felix Riddle, Samuel Slabside, Betsey 
Scruggins, Polly Snipper, Solomon Sawhorse — {Sawhorse doesn't 
ansiver to his name. Samuel Slabside rises.) 

Slabside. — Mr. President, kin I tell you why Solomon Sawhorse 
isn't here. 

President. — Mr. Slabside will tell this here meetin' the cause of 
Sawhorse's absence. 

Slabside. — Wall, to commence at the fust place, you see Solomon 
has got a rale lively colt. He bought him of Square Smith out to 
Maple Holler. Joe Rankin says as how he paid a hundred and forty- 
two dollars for him, but Jake Slocum says 'tain't so. He says the 
colt ain't wuth mor'n one hundred dollars of any man's money, and 
that Solomon Sawhorse is too cute a man to be tuck in in that kind 
o' style. I don't know how this may be but I've heern tell that Sol 
traded his big brindle steer and his red calf for the colt, and gin twenty 
dollars to boot. 

Mr. President, I can't say how true this may be. But I will leave 
the colt and come to Solomon. Solomon he was a ridin' along the 
road this mornin' on his new colt, when all at once the colt he 
squatted, and Solomon he fell off inter the mud. You know Solomon 
is an awful feller to ride fast. Wall, he was a ridin' fast this mornin', 
and the colt he squatted, and Solomon he fell off inter the mud. He 
was a sight to be seen ; his head was kivered with mud, and his hat 
was kivered with mud, and he was hurt about the pulmonus regions. 
If he had not been a ridin' fast, I think he would not have fell off; but 
you know Solomon will ride fast, and the colt he squatted, and Solo- 
mon he fell off inter the mud. 

I was a ridin' along with Zekiel Shaw when it happened ; we were 



492 DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 

about a stun's throw from Solomon, and Zekiel give it as his opinion 
that the colt skeered at a white cat which was onto the fence. And I 
think Zekiel was right. The colt seed the cat onto the fence, and all 
to once the colt he squatted, and Solomon he fell off inter the mud. 
I think this ought to be a warnin' to all people who ride too fast, for 
if Solomon had not been ridin' too fast, the colt he would not have 
squatted, and Solomon he would not have fell off inter the mud. 
(Slabside wipes Ids face with a large cotton handkerchief and resumes Ids 
seat) 

President. — The Secretary will perceed with the callin of the roll. 

Secretary (calls). — Ann Eliza Slimkins, Jane Jones, Jerusha 
Brown. — {Jerusha Brown doesn't answer to her name. Ann Eliza 
Slimkins rises.) 

Ann Eliza Slimkins. — Mr. President, I can tell you why Jerusha 
Brown is absent at the present calling of the roll. 

President. — Ann Eliza, perceed. 

Ann Eliza. — Jerusha had writ out her essay onto "The Alligator," 
and intended to be here to read it for the ederfecation of the assembled 
populace, but — really I don't like to tell. 

President. — Mr. Secretary will perceed with the callin of the roll. 

Secretary (calls). — John Brown, Michael Watson, President Burns, 
Peleg Swipes. Mr. President, the roll is called. 

President. — Jim Logan, stop a pullin' Sal Brown's curls. Boys, 
quit yer laffin'. The first performance will be an essay to be read by 
Betsey Scruggins, the Flytown poetess. 

(Betsey rises in her place and reads) : 

THE MOON. 

The moon it is a great big world, 

And hangs up in the sky, 
And giveth light on moonlight nights 

To the worlds a-passing by. 

It also giveth light to chaps 
When out upon a spark ; 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 493 

It is much pleasanter then to court 
Than when it is pitch dark. 

Bill Jones went out one deep, dark night 

To court Susannah Cree; 
He fell over a great big log, 

And hurt the cap of his knee. 

Now if Jones had stayed to hum, 

And had not sparked Miss Cree 
Until the moon had got full again, 

He would not have hurt his knee. 

But that's the way when a feller's courtin' 

He would climb a popular tree, 
Or go through the darkest night, 

No difference if he did hurt the cap of his knee. 

Boy in Audience. — How are you, cap of his knee? {Other boys 
laugh?) 

President. — Order there, I say. If you boys don't keep order, I'll 
appoint a committee to export you. 

Betsey. — I ax you, Mr. President, am I to be interrupted in this 
manner ? 

President. — No, you aren't ; indeed you aren't. Go on with the 
readin' of your soul-thrillin' essay, and I'll maintain order at the peril 
of my individual life. 

Betsey. — No, I'll read no more. I did not get up in this meetin'to 
be laughed at by a parcel of heathenish boys. I shall resoom my seat 
and stay resoomed until those benighted boys are taught to keep order 
and respect intellectual latitudinarianism. (Seats herself?) 

Felix Riddle. — I feel sorry, indeed, that the reading of this sub- 
lime poem has been interrupted by the outbursting laughter of a 
number of obstreperous boys. I had become deeply interested in the 
fate and fortunes of the hero, Mr. William Jones, and I can say that I 
have a sincere desire to know how the poem ends. 



494 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 



Betsey (rises). — The gentleman who has just tuk his seat has my 
thanks for his complimentary collusions to my humble poem ; and I 
would just take this opportunity to say to him that if he will call down 
to our house some evenin', I will be happy to read the poem to him 
in toto, mitltwu in parvo ct staccato. I would also say that if he should 
call, we will not be interrupted by noisy boys. As the poet has 
touchingly said, " All will be still." I might also add, we will have 
the best room all to ourselves. 

President. — This meetin' will now debate the important question, 
" Should women have the right of suffrage?" Polly Snipper and 
Jane Jones will speak on the affirmative, and Peleg Swipes and John 
Brown on the negative. Polly Snipper will take the floor and 
elucidate her position. 

Polly Snipper (rises and speaks in a loud voice). — Mr. President, 
this is an important question, and the Frog Hollow Lyceum are 
awakening to her duty when she takes up this question for debate. It 
is high time we were a raisin' our voices and makin' the hills echo and 
reverberate with our clamors for the right. Mr. President, why not, I 
ax you, shouldn't a woman be allowed to vote? Can't a woman read ? 
Can't a woman write ? And if a woman can read, and if a woman can 
write, why shouldn't she be allowed to vote? That's the question of 
the day. 

Throughout the length and breadth of the land we see millions of 
ignoramuses rushin' madly to the ballot-box and votin' — votin' for 
what? Why, Mr. President, they don't know what they are votin' for. 
They can't read, they can't cipher in long division, they can't spell 
their names, they can't do nothin' but guzzle down the red-hot 
whiskey. They vote just as somebody tells 'em to vote. Is this 
right Mr. President? No, a thousand times no ! Women have never 
had their rights ! they have been ill-used ; they have been trodden 
down, as it were, and they have been treated bad. There are some 
women who will not stand up for their rights, but I am not one of 'em. 
No, sir ! 

There are some men in this neighborhood, and even within the 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 495 

Frog Hollow Lyceum, who, if they had wives, would see them wash 
bed-clothes all day long, and patch pantaloons all night long, and then, 
with brazen effrontery, would say that they were in their speers. I say 
it isn't so ! Woman will not be in her speer until she can go to the 
ballot-box and deposit her vote ! She will not be in her speer until 
she can have all the rights that a man has. Mr. President, my antago- 
nist on this occasion isn't a gentleman. I repeat it, Mr. President, 
Peleg Swipes isn't a gentleman, not by a long shot, and everybody 
knows it. 

Peleg Swipes {springing to his feet). — Order ! order ! I call the 
lady to order. Mr. President, are you going to allow Polly Snipper 
to blacken my character ? 

Polly Snipper. — Let him rave ; 'twill do him a sight of good. 
Perhaps it will ease his conscience. 

Several Members. — Order ! order ! order ! {Several hickory nuts 
are cracked by the boys. General confusion) . 

John Brown. — Mr. President, I rise to a point of order. 

Boys in Audience. — Can't see the point. 

President. — This fuss has been sprung upon me. Fusses will 
spring upon people. It has tuk. some heavy thinkin' to decide what 
to do. But I have decided. I decide that Polly shall be allowed to 
go on with her speech and say her say. I haven't no doubt but Polly 
spent consid'able time in larnin' this speech, and she ort to be allowed 
to say it through. 

Boy in Audience. — Impeach the President. 

Another Boy. — Go in, old Veto. 

President. — Order, now. {Members take their seats.) Polly, per- 
ceed with your speech. 

Polly Snipper. — Well, as I was a sayin', this antagonist of mine, 
Peleg Swipes, is no gentleman. 

Boy in Audience. — So now ! 

Polly Snipper. — He has had the onparalleled imperdence to say 
that all those women who talk about women's rights are old maids 
who can't get married, and that their talk about elervatin' the sex is 



496 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 






pure growlin' because nobody axes 'em to many. Marry, indeed ! 
Who'd marry the likes of Peleg Swipes ? 

Boy in AuDiENCEi-^-Polly Snipper would. 

Polly Snipper. — 'Tain't so! What outlandish boys! Mr. President, 
if you can't keep them boys quiet, you'd better consign your position. 

President {in a loud voice). — Order there, boys; order, I say! 
Sure's you live, I'll drag ye out if ye don't be quiet. ■ Polly, perceed 
with the question at issue. 

Polly Snipper. — Now, Mr. President, I submit, would a gentleman 
talk in the aforementioned way ? Would a gentleman dare to defame 
the character of an unprotectable female? No, Mr. President, no, no! 
From the heights of the Andrews to the Gibralters of Jackson county, 
may be heard one spoontenaginous No! From the rice fields of 
Florida to the duck ponds of Maine, may be heard the ringing echo, 
No, no! I repeat it, Mr. President, and I re-repeat it, Peleg Swipes is 
no gentleman. His colleague, John Brown, is a gentleman. When he 
comes to speak, he will speak to the point, and in no such way as 
Peleg Swipes will speak. I have done. 

President. — Peleg Swipes will rise and define his position. 

Peleg Swipes. — It is with the prpfoundest consternation and the 
most unsufferable indignation that I rise to repel the attacks of my 
opponent, Polly Snipper. Every person knows that she has been 
hunting a husband for the last twenty years — 

Boy in audience. — "That's what's the matter with Hannah." 

Peleg Swipes. — And now, when she finds that she can't get one, 
she embarks in the Woman's Rights ship and sets sail. 

Boy in audience. — Let her sail! 

Peleg Swipes. — Mr. President, I can explain to you the cause of 
her unparalleled attack on me. She has kept a shinin' up to me ever 
since last grass a year, and t'other day I took occasion to tell her to 
stay at hum and mind her knittin'. 

Polly {very much excited). — It isn't so, Mr. President, it isn't so. 
I call the speaker to order. Mr. President, are you going to allow 
my character to be profaned in that manner? 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 497 

Peleg Swipes. — Mr. President, I hope you will preserve order. 
She has had her say, now I must have mine. 

Boy. — Another rumpus, sure's you're born. 

Polly Snipper. — There must be order here, and Swipes must be 
stopped. 

Jane Jones. — Polly Snip, you old maid, hold your tongue and let 
the debate go on. 

Polly Snipper. — Call me an old maid, will you? I'll teach you a 
lesson. 

Jane Jones. — I'll teach you a lesson. 

Several Members. — Order! order! order! Adjourn! adjourn! 

Boy in audience. — I'll bet on the frizzed bangs. 

Another boy. — Isn't this jolly? 

President. — Ladies, preserve order. 

Boy. — Can't preserve nothin' here. 

Another boy. — Never mind the Prez. Fight it out on that line if 
it takes all summer. 

Members. — Order! order! order! Adjourn! adjourn! 

[Lights put out ; general confusion, the women screaming, the men 
calling order, boys laughing and shouting^ 

H. Elliott McBride. 



LITTLE HELPERS. 

for three little girls. 

ALL. 

T -THAT are little girls good for?" 
j/\[_ We heard a man ask to-day; 

So we have come here to tell you, 
Please listen to what we say. 



I am mamma's "little helper," 
So she calls me every day. 
32 



498 DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 

I wipe dishes, sweep and dust, 

Though, of course, sometimes I play, 

I can rock the baby's cradle, 
Keeping him asleep, you see; 

And when mamma's very busy 
She can't think of sparing me. 

II. 

I am papa's "little comfort," 

For I help him very much. 
I smooth away his headache 

With the very softest touch-; 
I warm his slippers by the fire, 

Before he comes to tea; 
And I'm very sure my papa 

Couldn't think of sparing me. 



in. 
I am grandma's "little treasure.". 

She is very old, you see, 
So I always wait upon her; 

I am sure that she needs me. 
I find her glasses every day, 

And thread her needles, too. 
If I should ever go away, 

What would my grandma do? 

ALL. 

This is what we are good for : 

We help all the long day through, 

And though we are only little girls, 
We try to be good and true. 

Our part may be only a little part, 
But we try to do it well, 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 499 

And we're very happy all day long, 

As each of us can tell. 
By-and-by we'll each grow larger, 

And can do a larger share. 
But don't think little girls useless, 

It isn't exactly fair. 
For little girls do little things 

Quite as well as, you, 
And sometimes a little better; 

Now, don't you think so, too? 

E. L. Brown. 



A SCHOOL=GIRL'S TROUBLES. 

SOLO AND CHORUS. 

Air {from "Patience"), "The Magnet and the Churn." Or may be 

spoken. 

A dozen or more little girls, dressed, ready for school, with books and 

school-bags in their hands. 

First verse — Solo. 

I now attend a public school, 
And always try to mind each rule; 
I study grammar and learn to spell, 
In both of which I quite excel. 
Sad to say, in arithmetic 
My poor head seems to be so thick, 
I always look and feel most glum 
When asked to do a simple sum. 

Chorus — A simple sum? 

Solo — A simple sum? 

Though very clever, in ciph'ring ever 
I seemed to be most dumb; 



500 DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 

There's no denying, 'tis very trying — 
I can't do a simple sum! 

Chorus — Though very clever, in ciph'ring ever 

She seems to be most dumb; 
There's no denying, 'tis very trying — - 

She can't do a simple sum. 

Second verse — Solo. 

Although I'm but a little lass, 
I stand the head of all my class ; 
I read, you know, with utmost ease, 
And all my teachers greatly please. 
Now, really few with me compare, 
I learn my tasks with greatest care; 
In one alone I am remiss — • 

Arithmetic I always miss. 

Chorus — You always miss? 

Solo — I always miss! 

I state it clearly and most sincerely — 

The matter is simply this : 
Naught availing, I'm always failing — 

Arithmetic I miss! 

Chorus — She states it clearly and most sincerely— 
The matter is simply this : 
Naught availing, she's always failing — 
Arithmetic she'll miss. 

Third verse — Solo. 

It happened once I was surprised, 
Arithmetic, I so despised, 
Lost all at once its mystery, 
And seemed an easy thing to me ; 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 501 

The rule of three and fractions, too, 
Were not really hard to do, 
My happiness now seemed supreme, 
Alas, I woke — 'twas all a dream! 

Chorus — 'Twas all a dream? 

Solo — 'Twas all a dream ! 

In waking hours I lost the powers 

To rise in the world's esteem. 
Was it not frightful this state delightful 

Should only be a dream? 

Chorus — In waking hours she lost her powers 
To rise in the world's esteem. 
Was it not frightful this state delightful 
Should only be a dream? 

Annette Marsh. 



TABLEAUX FROM « MOTHER GOOSE." 

OLD KING COLE. 

Old King Cole was a merry old soul, 

A merry old soul was he, 
He called for his pipe and he called for his bowl 

And he called for his fiddlers three. 

Tableaux. — \A boy is seated in a large arm chair with his feet resting 
on a stool. He wears a long cloak made of very gay material, a crown 
on his head, and a long pipe in his mouth. Three boys each holding in 
position a violin stand before him, while a little fellow dressed as a page 
stands at his right elbow, holding a tray on which is placed a bowl or 
'glass, .] 

LITTLE MISS MUFFET. 

Little Miss Muffett 
She sat on a tuffet, 

Eating of curds and whey ; 



502 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 



There came a big spider 
Who sat down beside her, 

And frightened Miss Muffett away. 
[This represents a little girl dressed in white with a large straw hat on 
her head, sitting on a hassock. She has a dish in her lap out of which 
she is apparently eating something very good, when to Iter horror a spider 
is lowered at her side, and she runs off very much frightened^] 

LITTLE JACK HORNER. 

Little Jack Horner sat in a corner, 

Eating a Christmas pie; 
He put in his thumb, and he took out a plum, 
And said, " What a good boy am I ! " 
\A boy sits on a rug in a cornered screen with a large pie before him, 
which he is very anxious to devour with fork and knife. When the last 
tzvo lines of the poem are read, he pidls out the plum which he holds up 
in great delight ] 

SIMPLE SIMON. 

Simple Simon met a Pieman, 

Going to the Fair. 
Says Simple Simon to the Pieman, 

"Let me taste your ware." 

Says the Pieman to Simple Simon, 

" Show me first ypur penny." 
Says Simple Simon to the Pieman, 
"Indeed I haven't any." 
[Simple Simon is dressed in a very shabby costume which has just had 
some red patches put on it, slouch hat, and acts rather silly, while the 
Pieman wears a high collar, red tie, a large white apron and on his arm 
carries a good sized market basket in which he has pies. To illustrate the 
first stanza of the poem they meet, and Simple Simon gazes rather wist- 
fully into the Pieman's basket, and when the last part of the poem is read, 
Simple Simon puts both hands in his pockets, and shakes his head NO, 
signifying that he has no penny. .] 



DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 503 

JACK AND JILL. 

Jack and Jill went up the hill, 

To fetch a pail of water; 
Jack fell down and broke his crown 

And Jill came tumbling after. 

Up Jack got and home did trot, 

As fast as he could caper ; 
Dame Jill had a job to plaster his knob, 
With vinegar and brown paper. 
\A little girl as Jill is dressed in a gay calico dress, sun-bonnet, with a 
tin pail in her hand, lying with her face downward on an inclined board 
as the hill, while Jack, dressed as a, farmer's boy, lies in the same position 
below Jill. They both fall {the tin pail making, of course, a great noise) 
and scamper home.'] 

THE OLD WOMAN IN THE SHOE. 

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, 
She had so many children she didn't know what to do. 
She gave them some broth without any bread, 
She whipped them all round and sent them to bed. 
\A large frame is made in the shape of a shoe covered, with black 
material. Behind it are children of all sizes, while some are crawling 
on the top, out of the toe, and under it. The old woman has on a gray 
wig, shawl and an old fashioned, straw hat, and with a big switch in Jier 
hand % finds it quite difficult to keep the children in order .] 



TABLEAU— CINDERELLA'S SLIPPER. 

[This beautiful tableau may be represented in three or five scenes, and affords fine 

opportunity for dress effect.] 

SCENE I. 

CINDERELLA meanly clad, the sisters and Prince in costliest 
attire. One of the sisters is eagerly bent on forcing her foot 
into the slipper. 
A very large shoe, which she has just vacated, is on the floor beside 






















504 DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES AND TABLEAUX. 

her. The other, her face and attitude showing keenest disappointment, 
has just put on her shoe. These shoes, while nicely made and in 
keeping with their dress, should be the largest that can be had. The 
slipper may be of white satin, small and handsome. 

SCENE II. 

Cinderella, having begged permission to try on the slipper, has just 
seated herself, withdrawn her shoe and placed a dainty foot on the 
cushion beside the slipper. The sisters give her a scornful and 
reproachful look. 

SCENE III. 

Cinderella, having put on the slipper, has just drawn from her 
pocket its mate. The sisters, bewildered and dumbfounded, have 
thrown themselves at her feet. This scene makes a fitting conclusion 
to the performance, and the next two scenes should not be attempted 
unless the appliances are at hand to make Cinderella imagination's 
richest queen. 

SCENE IV. 

The fairy has touched her clothes with the magic wand, and 
Cinderella has become a being of marvelous beauty. Her gorgeous 
splendor dazzles the eyes of the Prince. She helps her sisters to their 
feet, and shows, as before, no resentment for past insult. 

SCENE v. 
Cinderella and the Prince, arm in arm, prepare to leave the stage, 
followed by the two sisters. 

TABLEAU— LISTENERS HEAR NO GOOD OF THEMSELVES. 

THE scene is a parlor. — In the foreground are two young girls, 
one of whom holds a miniature out to the other, who puts it 
aside, with an expression of angry contempt. The first girl is 
laughing heartily, and pointing her finger at the second, as if teasing 
her about the picture. 

Peeping out from behind a window-curtain is a young man, who, 
with an expression of perfect rage, is shaking his fist at the ladies in 
the foreground. 
LBJL12 



